The Strange Disappearance of a Bollywood Star
Page 1
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Vaseem Khan Limited
Excerpt from The Unexpected Inheritance of Inspector Chopra copyright © 2015 by Vaseem Khan
Excerpt from Murder at the House of Rooster Hapiness copyright © 2016 by David Casarett, M.D.
Cover design by Anna Woodbine
Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Originally published in 2017 by Mulholland Books in Great Britain
First U.S. Edition: July 2017
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2017937762
ISBNs: 978-0-316-43451-5 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-43450-8 (ebook)
E3-20170609-JV-PC
Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
A BOLLYWOOD CONCERT
THE CASE OF THE MISSING HELMET
THE LIGHTNING BOLT OF MALABAR HILL
RANGWALLA RECEIVES A SUMMONS
THE PEOPLE’S JUDGE
CITY OF DREAMS
THE QUEEN OF MYSORE
HIMALAYAN STUDIOS
THE MAD WOMAN
THE RANSOM LETTER
A VITAL CLUE
RANGWALLA DRESSES FOR THE OCCASION
MIRA ROAD MYSTERY
THE BLOODY EAR
THE MASTER’S HAVELI
RANSOM EXCHANGE AT THE MADH FORT
DANCING FOR THE MASTER
WELCOME TO HELL
A TUTOR FOR IRFAN
A VIOLENT ENCOUNTER WITH THE PAST
POPPY AND SHOOT-’EM-UP SHERIWAL GO HEAD-TO-HEAD
A SINGING GHOST
ACP RAO FACES THE MUSIC
THE SECRET OF THE MYSTERIOUS PORTRAIT
THE GREAT ESCAPE
RANGWALLA TRAILS A GHOST
ON THE RUN
HIMALAYAN STUDIOS REDUX
A LEGAL TWIST
CONFRONTING THE KIDNAPPERS
CHASE ON THE SEA LINK
A SECRET WEDDING
FILM CITY SHOWDOWN
A CRIME FROM THE PAST
THE FESTIVAL OF COLOURS
THE MASTER COMES FULL CIRCLE
THE FINAL TAKE
GLOSSARY
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BY VASEEM KHAN
A PREVIEW OF THE UNEXPECTED INHERITANCE OF INSPECTOR CHOPRA
A PREVIEW OF MURDER AT THE HOUSE OF ROOSTER HAPPINESS
PRAISE FOR THE UNEXPECTED INHERITANCE OF INSPECTOR CHOPRA
PRAISE FOR THE PERPLEXING THEFT OF THE JEWEL IN THE CROWN
NEWSLETTERS
To my friends in India who welcomed me, all those years ago, with such warmth, friendship and generosity, that when I left a decade later it was with enough wonderful memories to write a thousand splendid stories.
A BOLLYWOOD CONCERT
On a sultry March evening, in the great hive-city of Mumbai, Inspector Ashwin Chopra (Retd) was once again discovering the futility of reasoned discourse with his fellow countrymen.
“He is an elephant,” he said sternly. “Elephants do not eat hot dogs. They are herbivores. In other words: vegetarian.”
“Hah!” said the hot-dog vendor, snapping his tongs triumphantly in the air. “These are vegetarian.”
Chopra looked down at the sizzling griddle. Then he looked at the heap of sagging hot dogs set beside it on the vendor’s handcart. Flies circled amorously around the pyramid, like B-2 bombers on a raid.
He turned and fixed his companion with a stony look. “Did you take the hot dogs?” he asked.
Ganesha blinked rapidly, then twirled his trunk in the air, rocking back and forth on his blunt-toed feet, ears flapping, as Chopra glared.
He recognised the signs.
During his thirty-year career in the Mumbai police service he had interrogated thousands of suspects, and in so doing had become intimately familiar with the language of tells, involuntary movements that gave the inexperienced dissembler away.
It seemed that similar laws governed the behaviour of one-year-old elephants.
“What have I told you about helping yourself?” he scolded.
Ganesha hung his head.
“What’s going on here?”
Chopra looked up to see his wife Poppy powering down the road with young Irfan in tow, the boy’s walnut-brown face split by an enormous smile. In his right hand he clutched a stick of candyfloss, floating above his head like an umbrella. Poppy, resplendent in a marine-blue sari, steered him through the crush of people moving towards the entrance of the Andheri Sports Stadium.
“This elephant here is a thief!” replied the hot-dog vendor primly. “I have caught him in the act.”
Chopra closed his eyes.
Poppy’s cheeks reddened. “Is that a fact?” she said.
“He has consumed four of my finest hot dogs,” continued the vendor, oblivious to Chopra’s shaking head.
Poppy stepped forward and jabbed the paunchy man in his chest. “What proof do you have that he ate those hot dogs?” Jab. “Who would want to eat such rubbish anyway?” Jab. Jab. “Do you even have a licence for this cart? Look at the state of it! It is filthy!”
“But— but—” The vendor backpedalled into the traffic-clogged road. An auto-rickshaw with a cage of scrawny chickens strapped to its roof swerved around him, honking madly. A cloud of feathers trailed from the rick as it buzzed away.
“Chopra! There you are!”
Chopra turned to see a heavyset, grey-haired man with a walrus moustache bearing down on them, arms outstretched in welcome.
In the three years since Chopra had last met Bunty Saigal his old friend had gained weight, padding out a naturally generous frame that now strained the seams of a navy-blue safari suit. Saigal had left the Brihanmumbai Police five years ago—four years before Chopra himself had been forced into early retirement by an ailing heart. Saigal had made the change for financial reasons, moving into a lucrative role as a security consultant at the Andheri Sports Stadium. Now he organised security for major events, such as the Bollywood concert that Chopra and Poppy were attending this evening. A month ago Chopra had made the mistake of mentioning Saigal’s new position to Poppy. Upon discovering that Saigal would be presiding over the upcoming concert featuring Bollywood’s newest star, Vicky Verma, she had harangued Chopra to twist his arm for fr
ont-row seats.
Chopra had reluctantly obliged.
Bollywood movies were one of Poppy’s enduring passions and, as the show was to take place at the nearby stadium, it seemed churlish of him not to at least enquire.
Saigal had been more than glad to help.
He had always been a gregarious and jovial man, the life of the party, whereas Chopra himself was of a more taciturn disposition.
A broad-shouldered man with a head of jet-black hair greying only at the temples, Chopra’s most impressive feature was an imposing moustache that underlined the natural authority that emanated from his tall frame. For almost three decades he had served Mumbai’s citizenry as a policeman; for three decades he had remained steadfast to the principles ingrained in him by his father: honesty, integrity and decency. This in itself made him something of an oddity, for such qualities were often notable by their absence in the venal sinecures of the Indian police service.
Saigal pumped Chopra’s hand with his strangler’s grip, then led them past the crowded turnstiles, through the packed outer courtyard, and into the stadium proper.
A wall of noise greeted them as they moved along the running track, past the cordoned mass of jostling, chattering concert-goers trampling down the field grass, to the front row where a string of security guards were holding back the crowd as it ebbed and flowed.
As they walked along, the great bowl of the stadium opened up around them.
Chopra glanced up.
Beyond the rim of the cantilevered steel roof, the iconic fifty-metre-tall Andheri water tower, with its conical tanks, loomed over the stadium like a praying mantis. He noted the many fans settling onto the rows of concrete bleachers curving upwards under the roof. He would have preferred to be up there, away from the chaos, but he knew Poppy wouldn’t hear of it.
The day’s heat had settled into the stadium. Chopra found that he was sweating inside his white cotton half-sleeved shirt and beige duck pants.
He glanced at Ganesha, happily trotting beside Irfan. Occasionally, Irfan would lower his candyfloss so that Ganesha could pluck some off with his trunk and insert it into his mouth.
As usual, the pair were as thick as thieves.
Irfan, a street urchin who had walked into the restaurant Chopra had opened after his retirement a year earlier, had become a bona fide member of the family. He continued to live at the restaurant, as did Ganesha, but there was no doubt the pair had slipped into the vacant space in Poppy and Chopra’s lives, a space occasioned by the absence of children of their own.
Chopra recalled the fuss Poppy had made getting the boy ready for his first-ever concert. Smart new clothes, stylish shoes, fragrantly oiled hair parted with geometric precision. Even Ganesha had been given a bath and a sprinkling of Poppy’s favourite perfume. There had been no question that the little elephant would not attend.
Thanks to Poppy, Chopra’s young ward was now as addicted to the Bombay talkies as his wife.
On the day of his retirement the infant elephant had arrived at Chopra’s home, a fifteenth-floor apartment in the Mumbai suburb of Andheri East, as a malnourished and despondent calf with barely the energy to lift his head. The elephant had been accompanied by a curious letter from Chopra’s long-vanished Uncle Bansi, a notorious prankster from his childhood in the Maharashtrian village of Jarul. But this time Bansi’s tone had been serious. Bansi had not explained why he was sending Chopra an elephant, nor anything about the calf’s past, merely stating, cryptically, that “this is no ordinary elephant.”
At first thoroughly at a loss as to what to do with the strange bequest, Chopra had eventually warmed to his role as guardian. And in Ganesha—as he had named his young ward—he had ultimately discovered a sensitive and adventurous soul. The little elephant possessed depths that Chopra had yet to fully fathom; what was certain was that he was a highly intelligent creature, and an emotional one. As each day passed Chopra discovered new facets to Ganesha’s talents. He had yet to solve the mystery of the elephant’s past, but his appreciation of his ward’s extraordinary abilities continued to grow.
Saigal ushered them to the front row, parking them before a group of singing, chattering youngsters.
“Sir!” A brisk young security guard pointed at Ganesha with his baton. “There is an elephant behind you!”
Saigal rounded his eyes and held his hands to his cheeks in dismay. “Where?”
“There!” said the guard.
Saigal turned and made a horrified face. “An elephant! I must be getting old. I thought it was my shadow.”
The guard, realising that his boss was making fun of him, coloured.
“Chopra, I shall leave you to it.” Saigal bid them farewell and lolloped off back the way they had come.
Chopra’s eyes wandered over the crowd jostling around them, comprised largely of teenagers and young women wearing far too few clothes in his opinion.
But such was the modern fashion.
Occasionally the knot of girls behind them would squeal delightedly as canned pictures of Vicky Verma were flashed onto the giant screen erected above the stage. Verma leaping from a moving train; Verma bashing up an assortment of villains; Verma romancing a sultry, pouting leading lady. There was even a surreal shot of Verma in an astronaut’s outfit sipping from a can, a particularly cheesy ad campaign for a major soft drinks company.
He glanced at his watch, tapping it furiously. The watch was nearly a quarter of a century old, a memento of his departed father, the schoolmaster of the village in interior Maharashtra where both Poppy and Chopra had grown up. A congenitally temperamental timepiece, but he would not dream of parting with it.
Beside him Poppy licked a thumb and wiped a smear of sugar from Irfan’s mouth. Ganesha trumpeted happily. He was receiving a great deal of attention from the girls behind them, who kept crowding around him to take photographs. Chopra knew his ward enjoyed the limelight, though sometimes he wished Ganesha would be a little more retiring.
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud klaxon, and then a cavalcade of fireworks erupted from the gantry above the stage. Smoke billowed from the stage floor and then, as it cleared, an overweight man in a bright red suit with a matching tie and black fedora jogged forward, holding a mike.
Chopra recognised the well-known Bollywood comedian Jonny Pinto.
Pinto lifted off his fedora, bowed to the crowd, bellowed a welcome, and immediately launched into a fusillade of cheap jokes—some that seemed to Chopra to skirt the boundaries of good taste—before introducing the first act, a fusion dance troupe marrying traditional Punjabi bhangra dance with modern street dance.
Chopra found himself shaking his head, even as howls of delight rocked the stadium.
He knew that such concerts were an integral part of the industry. Bollywood films were, almost without exception, musicals—indeed, movie music was an industry all by itself, and audio sales an important source of revenue. Concerts such as this were vehicles for promotion: for the movies, the stars, and the music. Producers pumped millions into them; they became miniature productions in their own right, microcosms of the glamour and spectacle that was Bollywood. Chopra, however, found them gaudy and coarse, lacking the refined artistic sensibility that appealed to him.
The concert proceeded apace, with each energetic act following closely on the heels of the one before, punctuated with comedy skits from Jonny Pinto. A succession of ageing stars and up-and-coming starlets—in costumes ranging from swirling saris to shimmering miniskirts—performed dance numbers, and another well-known comedian brought the house down with a send-up of the state’s much-maligned Chief Minister.
And then the lights dimmed.
Finally, it was time for the main event.
Pinto launched into a gratuitous introduction—“Bollywood’s newest sensa-tion! The kid that’s taking the industry by storm! More super than Superman! Mumbai’s own bad boy, the one, the only, Vicky Verma!”—then backpedalled offstage as fireworks erupted around him. More smoke
engulfed the stage.
When it cleared, a tall figure stood silhouetted against a colossal movie poster. The roving spotlight sprang onto the solitary figure dressed in shimmering silver trousers and a stylishly cut black jacket above a white vest. Designer stubble and twin earrings. A quiffed and gelled mullet of dark hair, barely held in check by a red bandana.
Vicky Verma, enfant terrible of Bollywood, and superstar in the making.
The crowd went wild. Chopra had to hold his hands to his ears as the gang of cheerleaders behind him hurled themselves forwards on a tidal wave of noise.
Verma launched into a dance routine, gyrating about the stage while lip-syncing to a raunchy number from his last movie. When he was joined onstage by a troupe of dancers, the gyrations became even more suggestive.
Chopra stole a glance at Poppy. His wife was clapping away, as engrossed as any of the teenagers around her.
After the first number Verma paused for breath. His dark eyes swept the front rows with an imperious gaze. He suddenly caught sight of Ganesha and did a double-take. As accustomed to the extraordinary as Verma was, it gave Chopra a small measure of satisfaction to think that he had probably never seen an elephant in the front row of one of his concerts before. Particularly an elephant trumpeting as loudly in appreciation as Ganesha was.
The concert proceeded with three more numbers from Verma, interspersed with incoherent addresses to the audience, before the final dance act.
Verma and a cast of dozens congested the stage in gaudy historical costumes from the set of his latest movie, a big-budget blockbuster slated for release later in the year. A hypnotic beat from the movie’s soundtrack pounded from the stadium’s speakers.
And then, abruptly, the music stopped, and a curtain of ringing silence fell over the audience.
All the lights cut out, save a single spotlight focused on Verma. The compere began to count: 3… 2… 1… Stage smoke erupted from beneath Verma’s boots, engulfing him, and then was just as swiftly blown away by powerful fans…
The audience gasped.
Verma had vanished.
The crowd waited with breathless anticipation. Suddenly, the spotlight swung halfway down the stadium to a spot just above the highest bleachers on the stadium’s eastern side.