Bluejay Books Pvt. Ltd.
A-8/76, Ist Floor
Sector 16, Rohini
Delhi 110 085
[email protected]
First published by
Bluejay Books Pvt. Ltd. in 2014
Copyright © Saurbh Katyal, 2014
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publishers.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
I was glad it was raining. Glad, because it gave me a reason for staring out of the window of my office and appear preoccupied, while the poor lady wept her heart out.
She was crying because I had just given her proof of her husband’s affair – the photographs lying on the table, of her husband and her best friend, in various compromising positions. I prepared myself for the uncomfortable task of saying something reassuring.
I began with a feeble attempt to pacify her. “Mrs Singh, would you like some water?”
The hitherto inaudible sobs rose to an embarrassingly high pitch.
“That bitch Seema! I will kill her! We used to play tennis together. How could she do this to me?” she said in between sobs. To my mind, the answer was simple. Seema accomplished this by being twenty kilos lighter. Nevertheless, I maintained my silence and nodded sympathetically.
The rain ceased, forcing me to stop staring outside. I glanced at my watch and realised it had been over half an hour since I had shown her the pictures. It was time to bring up the subject of the remainder of my fee. As per the contract, seventy five percent of my fee would be payable on submitting conclusive evidence. This was my tenth extramarital affair case since I had become a detective, and each time I was confounded by the seemingly simple task of bringing up the subject of my fee with some poor lady who had just discovered the infidelity of her spouse.
At the same time, I had learned from previous experience that if the disturbed wife left the office without paying, I might as well kiss my fee goodbye. The actions of an emotional woman were only as predictable as the actions of the Indian cricket team during a series.
I got up from my chair and walked towards her. I stood behind her, whispered a few words of empathy, and placed my hands on her shoulder. The closing act was always crucial. If successful, it would get me an endorsement at her next kitty party or aerobics class. Nothing spectacular, but something modest like, “It was the most trying time of my life! Thank God for Vishal Bajaj, the detective I hired. I don’t know what I would have done without him. He’s the man for all jobs – discreet, charming, and cute too!” I used my fingers to massage her shoulders. Being hasty while discussing the fee was always a mistake from a repeat-business perspective. Cheating-husband jobs were my core competency. My jealous competitors had given me the sobriquet toy boy. The more crass ones called me a gigolo.
Last week, a lady had walked into Eagle Eye Detective Agency just across the street, and asked for me. They tried to inveigle her into appointing them but it was Vishal Bajaj whom she wanted (and whom she got). Such occurrences were common, and my competitors retaliated by spreading rumours about my promiscuity.
But they were just that – rumours. On principle, I never got cosy with any of my female clients. There were times when the ladies themselves tried to seduce me but I maintained a strict client-detective relationship. I saw my job as an honourable one. I was like an alchemist, transforming women with low self-esteem into beings filled with hope and optimism; counselling rich, middle aged, jilted wives to cope with the fact that they were no longer attractive to their husbands.
I felt her shoulders relax under my fingers. She had finally stopped sobbing. I said softly, “Mrs Singh, there is the subject of my pending fee.”
I wished she would pay and leave. The post-mortem of a case usually involves a deluge of emotions and, as I often say to my second-in-command, Pranay, “Too many emotions give me loose motions.”
Mrs Singh was silent for a few seconds.
Then she asked, “Do you think I am attractive, Vishal?”
Uh-oh.
“Of course, Mrs Singh! I find you quite attractive. Your husband is unfortunate not to cherish a lady like you.”
“Let’s go out somewhere and spend time together. I am very lonely.”
The conviction with which she said that terrorised me. The expression on my face must have been evident because she started sobbing again.
“You don’t like me, do you? I am old and ugly.”
“No, no, Mrs Singh, you are definitely a very attractive lady,” I mumbled. “But you are confused and hurt right now, and I would never take advantage of you in this state.
“You are a woman of character, and you will have to be strong and clear-headed to get through this. I know your husband is concerned about his social standing; I recommend that you confront him with the pictures and demand an explanation ….”
I was glad I had worn a clean shirt because Mrs Singh had started sobbing again, using my shirt as a tissue.
Mrs Singh had wrapped her arms around my waist. She had stopped sobbing, and I waited for her to release me. I was acutely aware of her ample breasts resting against my thighs. The heat from her breasts was transmitting to Junior’s territory. I panicked, and gently tried to unclasp her hands to break the embrace, but she held on. It was too late. Junior sprung up in interest. I felt Mrs Singh stiffen as she felt the movement in my trousers.
I tried to discourage Junior by thinking of something repulsive. Rats – big, thick jungle rats. I had seen that on Discovery Channel. But Junior extended to his full length. I pushed her shoulders back so that her breasts would stop ironing my trousers. She leaned back and looked up at me coyly.
I glanced down, and my eyes were drawn to her cleavage. I could see two milky globes clasped in a black brassiere. I tore my eyes away and smiled weakly. She smiled coquettishly, her big brown eyes reflecting her anticipation, her ripe-red lips opening slightly.
I was beet red with embarrassment, and said quickly, “You want to let go of me? I think I need a glass of water.”
She held on and asked, “You’re sure you don’t want to come with me for a drink?”
I feigned confusion at her words, and raised my eyebrows in a what is going on gesture. She responded by indicating whatever Junior wants. Junior interpreted the signal faster than my brain could, and threatened to disown me if I let this opportunity go away. I admonished him, reminding him of the golden principle of Hunt Detective Agency, never breed with the feed.
I forcibly unclasped her wrists, went and sat on my chair, and let a few awkward seconds pass.
She took the initiative. “I guess there is no use crying over spilt milk. We had ten years of a happy married life. And men and dogs will always go where the meat is.”
I smiled to accentuate my dimples.
“I am glad you are taking this in the right spirit. Life goes on. Take him, or dump him. The power is within you, Mrs Singh.”
“Call me Preeti, please.”
She definitely didn’t feel old and ugly now. It took me five minutes to cajole Preeti into leaving my office. I promised to keep in touch, and escorted her out of my cabin into the able hands of Aarti, my secretary. Aarti had been the victim of an abusive marriage, and had divorced her husband after two long, torturous years. I returned to my cabin with a sigh of relief.
It was only ten minutes after Mrs Singh had left that I realised I had not collected the balance fee. I was too insouciant to regret that. It was noon, and I decided to call it a day.
I went to my desk and took out a half empty bottle of Scotch from the drawer. All that stuff you read about detectives having microphones, guns, and other fancy gadgets in the drawers, is strictly for the cows. Just like the eyewash they show in the movies – detectives leading a life of action and adventure. The only action we ever get is killing mosquitoes during an all-night watch. Our preferred choice of weapon is a spray can of mosquito repellent, and a steel flask of whisky. Most detectives die young, not from gunshots, but because of a pickled liver, or malaria. It’s a shitty life, but you get to be your own boss.
I poured a generous amount of Scotch into the coffee mug. I went to stand by the window, letting the ice melt in the Scotch. The phone rang. Credit card companies didn’t call on Sunday afternoon. It had to be a potential client. I kept the glass on the window sill, and picked it up after a few rings and said sharply, “Hello, Hunt Detective Agency.”
There was a pause. New clients often find themselves at a loss for words when they actually hear a detective’s voice. Some of them hang up. I spoke encouragingly, “This is Vishal. You can talk to me. Confidentiality assured.”
“Hello, Vishal?” she said.
Immediately, I knew it was her. Back from the past to haunt me.
When we had just broken up, or rather, when she had left me for another man, I used to often wonder what my reaction would be if life ever brought us together again. Now, three years later, I knew the answer. All that crap about time being a great healer is bullshit. Time heals nothing. Well, acne maybe.
“Hello? Vishal?” The urgency in her voice brought me back.
I composed myself and said calmly, “Yes, Aditi. This is
Vishal.”
“You recognised me!” she said, evidently pleased.
“Lucky guess. Everything okay?”
She sounded distressed.
“Something terrible has happened, and I didn’t know whom to call.”
“What happened?”
“Sunil’s elder brother was found murdered at our farmhouse an hour ago. No one knows what to do.”
Sunil was her husband, the man for whom she had dumped me. All three of us had been classmates in college.
“Have you informed the police?”
“Yes, Sunil has just called them.”
“Okay. Everyone else safe?…Okay. Give me your address. I will be there as soon as possible.”
The farmhouse was in the suburbs, about sixty kilometres from the city. The uphill road meandered dangerously, with a steep fall on one side and a rocky cliff on the other. Pranay winced when I overtook a police jeep in front of us, on a particularly narrow stretch of the road. I could feel my Honda City dangle in the air for a few heart-stopping seconds, before it screeched back to the road and zoomed ahead.
Pranay screamed, “Easy dude! You want the police to pull you over? That would delay us further!”
“Where do you think they are heading, Sherlock?”
One phone call from Aditi, and nostalgia was pulling my mind faster than quicksand dragging mating hippos.
I swerved the car at a sharp right angle, resulting in a four-wheel drift that made the tyres screech. Pranay made another attempt at conversation. He likes to talk when he gets nervous.
“She is the same dame, right?”
Pranay was twenty-nine years old, a year elder to me by birth, and several years younger to me personality-wise. He had joined me as a partner at Hunt Detective Agency. It was an arrangement in which I spent my time and money handling affairs of the office, he…well, spent it.
He used to be on my team when I worked in an American IT company. After my MBA, I had pursued the dollar dream, worked eighteen hours a day, over achieved my targets and became the youngest general manager in the history of the company. In the first six months of my job, I had been motivated by the ambition to prove worthy of Aditi. She liked her man to be successful. After she dumped me, I joined the bandwagon of workaholics, becoming a part of the matrix where each day began with a phone call over coffee; and each night ended in a pub, entertaining some client. Life had become some kind of profound competition, where my emotional loss was substituted by my professional success. I became a part of what they call the rat race.
It would have continued so, making me the stereotypical young, obese vice president who has a heart attack at thirty-five, and then finds solace in a hefty bank balance, a model wife, and two luxury apartments.
Fortunately, the great recession of 2008 happened, and I was asked to sack a couple of team members. Now, there are a few dominant personality traits that guide my actions. One of them is an exaggerated sense of accountability for people or things I am entrusted with. Aditi used to call it my Samurai Code of Honour. I refuted the company’s decision, threatening to quit if any of my team members were terminated. I was confident that they would not risk losing me. I was wrong.
I gave my team members positive recommendations, and we parted. One of the sacked employees was Pranay, the technical advisor in my erstwhile team. We used to get along well, so it was only natural for him to move into my apartment to save on the rent. The reason why Pranay had become one of my better friends could be attributed to him possessing the rare talent of sitting with me over drinks, without feeling the need to fill the silence with mindless chatter.
With my new unemployed status, I suddenly had time. Lots of it. Pranay and I decided that we needed a break for introspection purposes, and zeroed in on Goa. We were sure that a few weeks of sea breeze and sunshine was what we needed to clear our minds.
Pranay managed to procure a shack on a beach. This turned out to be the wrong course of action, as a substantial part of our holiday was spent lying intoxicated on the beach, with a bunch of French people who subscribed to the philosophy of Epicureanism. It was difficult to ponder over future prospects of your professional life, while marijuana lingered in the air, a bottle of Jack Daniel was always at arm’s length, and a couple of topless French girls applied buckets of sun lotion to their deliciously-toned bodies.
After a month of vegetating, I realised that I was too materialistic to spend the rest of my life waiting for spiritual enlightenment on a beach, and decided to come back. It was on the bus, during our journey back, that I had one of those epiphanies that led to my becoming a private detective. It must have been two in the morning, and all the other passengers were paying their tribute to Morpheus. I could hardly keep my eyes closed and I decided I was disillusioned and disgusted with the confinements of corporate life that demanded sycophancy as talent, and offered egotism as the reward. Translated, that meant the only other job offer I had in hand was at a salary reduced by thirty per cent.
The bus had stopped at one of those ghats. I looked out from the window, and was overcome by a sense of wonder. The pitch-black sky was lit across the horizon by millions of coruscating stars. There was deep silence, and I suddenly felt a sense of empowerment. I felt content with being rather than becoming. There was a time when I used to enjoy nature. During the past years in the success marathon, I had become oblivious to its joys.
It was mesmerisingly peaceful. I felt intrepid, and was possessed by a sense of destiny that mocked my worries, which seemed insignificant as compared to the vast cosmos of opportunities that existed before
me.
What was I worrying about? I was born to die anyway. As I sat in the lap of nature with my new-found power, I suddenly remembered my maternal uncle’s will. The old man had been my idol and used to run a detective agency in Bhopal. As a teenager, I used to visit him during the summer vacations. I had distinct memories of sitting in his one-room office, and being regaled by tales of his cases.
The pattern was the same. He used to recall a case, and lay it in front of me. I was supposed to guess who the culprit was. When I got it right, he used to make a big fuss over me. Enthused by his encouragement, I used to promise myself that I would be a part of the fraternity that restored order in people’s lives. It was the closest-guarded secret till I was fifteen or sixteen. Then one day I had given it up. I wondered why. The passions that I had indulged in as a boy, an eternity ago, did not feel silly now.
On the contrary, I was surprised how conveniently I had subdued my dreams and chosen a vocation, which had much to do with circumstances rather than free will. A month before I lost my job, a relative had called informing me that my uncle had died of kidney failure brought about by diabetes. He was sixty-six, and had died alone, and broke.
The only worthwhile possession he had had was the one-room office on the first floor of a rundown building. I was informed that he had left the property in my name, and its approximate valuation was eight lakh rupees. It’s not every day that you can gamble on someone else’s money to pursue your whims. In Goa, a French woman had said to me, “Everything happens for a reason. You may not know it yet, but wait and see. Do not doubt the wisdom of the universe.”
Could it be that the universe was sending me a signal now? I was suddenly excited. Pranay was asleep next to me when I jabbed his abundant midriff at two-thirty in the morning.
“Dude, I think we need to start a detective agency. You know…solve mysteries, create order from chaos and all that. What do you think?”
He replied with a thunderous snore. I took that as an omen. To cut a long story short, we joined as apprentices in one of the globe’s biggest detective agencies, or so they claimed. During the first two months of my training, I was oscillated between domestic, and corporate and banking fraud investigations – getting more training in mechanical gadgetry and corporate communications rather than the real stuff. As soon as the training period was over, I opted for domestic investigation. It seemed that I had made the correct decision as, very soon, I developed a reputation of being an effective resource; and finally, the director of the agency was allocating all the tough cases to me.
Seduced by Murder Page 1