The Case of the Missing Servant

by Tarquin Hall

  “State versus Ajay Kasliwal!” announced the court crier.

  Silence fell over the gallery as the print and wire service journalists readied their pens and notebooks.

  Judge Prasad was not one to stand on ceremony. His impatient manner suggested he would much rather be somewhere else (from what Puri had been told, his preferred location was the Jaipur golf course). This was not the Rajasthan High Court. There were no computers or microphones, no air-conditioning, no coffee machines dispensing sweet, frothy cups of Nescafé.

  This was a place of business.

  The more hearings Judge Prasad could pack into a single day, the more he could enrich his growing property portfolio. Thus, he did not allow lawyers to stand at their desks and engage in tedious examinations and cross-examinations. That was another luxury only the High Court could indulge. Here in Court 6, trials were conducted with all those gathered directly in front of him. This way, monetary bargaining and transactions could be conducted without anyone in the gallery overhearing.

  “Approach!” he instructed Kasliwal’s lawyer and the state prosecutor, Veer Badhwar.

  Both men stepped forward and stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the bench.

  The hearing, conducted in Hindi, took all of ten minutes.

  First, Judge Prasad asked Mr. Badhwar to present the charges and he gladly did so. The prosecutor then called Inspector Shekhawat, who explained that bloodstains had been discovered in the back of Kasliwal’s vehicle.

  The accused was then read the charges of rape and murder and asked how he pleaded.

  “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  His plea was entered into the record. Mr. Malhotra then asked that his client be granted bail.

  “Does the accused have an alibi for his location on the night of the murder?”

  “Sir, I respectfully submit the police have not provided ample proof that the murdered girl is my client’s former maidservant. The body was cremated twenty-four hours after it was discovered and was not properly identified at the time.”

  “Answer the question,” said the judge impatiently as the typist hammered away at his keys, recording their verbal exchange.

  “He was at a friend’s house, Your Honor,” said Malhotra.

  “Is this friend willing to come forward?”

  “We have not been able to locate the friend at the present time, but we are confident we will do so within a few hours.”

  “Does the police have any objection to the court granting bail?”

  “We do, Your Honor,” answered Inspector Shekhawat. “The crime is a heinous one. The accused is a danger to the public.”

  Judge Prasad scribbled something on the file that lay in front of him, checked his watch and then said, “Bail is denied. The accused is to be remanded into judicial custody. Constables, take him away.”

  “Your Honor, I object. My client has no criminal record and is an upstanding member of the community.”

  “Bail is denied. You are welcome to appeal the court’s decision.”

  The judge asked the clerk to search for a date for the trial to begin.

  Files and papers were moved back and forth across the bench; ledgers were opened and closed. The clerk ran his index finger over pages and columns until it came to rest on a spare slot nearly five months away. “April ninth at three forty-five,” he said.

  Badhwar and Malhotra were dismissed and Kasliwal was led from the courtroom to be taken to the Central Jail. Within seconds, the gallery emptied as his family and the newspaper hacks went in pursuit of him.

  By the time he left the courtroom, another group of file-toting advocates and their clients had gathered in front of the bench.

  Puri lingered behind, not wanting to get caught in the crush at the door.

  The detective caught up with Bobby Kasliwal on the steps of the courthouse, where he was waiting for his mother and Malhotra, who had gone to bribe the appropriate clerk to set a date to appeal the bail verdict and bring forward the start of the trial.

  Puri was struck by how much Bobby took after his father—nose, chin and height were almost identical. He combed back his black hair in the same style. And he had adopted some of Ajay Kasliwal’s mannerisms—the way in which he stood, for example, back straight and fingers laced together in a cradle.

  But Bobby’s youthful mien betrayed his lack of experience. His life was lived through books. This was evident to Puri from the small indentations on the sides of his nose, the ink stain on his middle index finger and his pullover’s threadbare elbows, which he’d worn down during long hours leaning on his desk studying his textbooks. Fidgeting constantly, he appeared to be inwardly grappling with fear and some form of regret.

  “Quite a journey you must have had,” said Puri after introducing himself.

  “Yes, sir, the flight was nearly ten hours and then three more hours on the road,” said Bobby, who was polite but made little eye contact. His right leg quivered nervously as if he was busting to go to the toilet.

  “By God! Must have been exhausting, no?” said Puri.

  “It was OK, sir, thank you, sir,” he said automatically.

  “So tell me, how is England? Must be cold.”

  “Very cold, sir. It rains too much.”

  “But you’re enjoying? London, that is?”

  “Very much, sir. It’s a wonderful opportunity.”

  Bobby looked over Puri’s shoulder, evidently searching for any sign of his mother.

  “So your mummy is doing all right, is it?” asked the detective.

  “She’s not been sleeping well, sir. She’s getting migraines.”

  Puri shook his head gravely.

  “It is only right and correct that you have come home,” he said in a sympathetic, avuncular tone. “Your mummy and papa need every last drop of support they can get.”

  He took Bobby gently by the arm and, pulling him toward him, added, “I can only imagine what anxiety you and your near-or-dear are experiencing. Must be something akin to hell. But rest assured everything is being done to clear your papa’s good name. By hook or crook we’ll get these fraudulent charges reverted. I give you my word on that. Most Private Investigators never fails.”

  He released Bobby’s arm.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m very grateful to you. There’s no way my father could have done this thing. How they can even suggest it, I don’t know. He never broke one law in his entire life.”

  “I understand you’re planning to work with him after your studies are complete?”

  “Certainly, sir. It’s always been my dream to work with Papa. There’s so much I can learn from him. I want to make a difference the way he has.”

  Puri fished out a copy of his business card and handed it to him.

  “Call me if any assistance is required. I can be reached night or day. If there’s anything you wish to discuss—anything at all—dial my number. Confidentiality is my watchword.”

  “Right, sir,” said Bobby.

  Puri turned to leave, but twisted around on his left foot and exclaimed, “By God, so forgetful I’m getting these days! One question mark is there, actually.”

  “Sir?” Bobby frowned.

  “Your whereabouts on the night of August twenty-first of this year? You were where exactly?”

  “In London, sir.”

  “Acha! You already reached, is it?”

  “I flew two weeks earlier.”

  “That is fine. Just I’m ticking all the boxes.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  Puri lingered for a moment, looking down at the ground, apparently lost in thought. Bobby put his hands in his pockets, took them out again and then folded them in front of his chest.

  “Did you get to know her—Mary, that is?” asked the detective after a long pause.

  “Know her, sir?”

  “Must be you talked with her?”

  “Not really, sir, she was, well, a servant. I mean, she made me tea and cleaned my clothes. That’s about it. I wa
s studying mostly.”

  “Can you tell me her last name or where she came from?”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t be able to tell you that. My mother should know.”

  Puri reached inside his safari suit and took out a folded piece of paper, a photocopy of the coroner’s photograph of the murder victim.

  He handed it to Bobby without telling him what it was.

  The young man unfolded it and grimaced at the gruesome image.

  “Is that Mary?” asked the detective.

  “I think so. It looks like her, sir,” said Bobby, still staring down at the image. And then he suddenly pushed the photocopy back into Puri’s hands, ran to the side of the steps and threw up.

  Eighteen

  Brigadier Kapoor called while Puri was on the way to see Munnalal. It was his third attempt in as many hours, but the detective had been too busy to pick up earlier.

  “Puri! I’ve been trying to reach you all day! What is your present location?” he demanded as soon as the detective answered.

  “Sir, I’m out-of-station, working on a most crucial and important case—”

  “More important than mine, is it?” scoffed Brigadier Kapoor indignantly.

  “Sir, honestly speaking, my commitment and dedication to your case is one hundred and ten percent. Just an emergency-type situation was there and it became necessary for me to leave Delhi right away for a day or two.”

  Puri sounded unreservedly conciliatory. He was, after all, in Brigadier Kapoor’s employ, albeit temporarily, and it was expected that an employer would periodically berate his or her employees to keep them in line. If the detective had been in his client’s shoes, he would have probably done the same. How had the Marathi poet Govindraj put it? “Hindu society is made up of men who bow their heads to the kicks from above and who simultaneously give a kick below.”

  “I don’t want to hear excuses!” barked Brigadier Kapoor, sounding as if he were back on the parade ground. “An entire week has passed without a word. I’ve not received one piece of intelligence! Now report!”

  In fact, it had only been five days since Puri had agreed to take on the case, and in that time, the Most Private Investigators team had been anything but idle. As he explained, his top two researcher-cum-analysts had been doing the initial footwork: getting hold of Mahinder Gupta’s financial statements and phone records and analyzing all the data for anything suggestive or suspicious. At the same time, Puri’s operative Flush had been ingratiating himself with the target’s servants and neighbors.

  He had also been going through the subject’s garbage.

  “Trash Analysis” was standard procedure in any matrimonial case, “Waste not, know not!” being one of the detective’s catchphrases. The stub of an airline boarding pass or a cigarette butt smeared with lipstick had, in the past, been enough to wreck the marriage plans of more than a few aspirants.

  Fortunately, getting hold of people’s garbage was a cinch. Indian detectives were much luckier than their counterparts in, say, America, who were forever rooting around in people’s dustbins down dark, seedy alleyways. In India, one could simply purchase an individual’s trash on the open market.

  All you had to do was befriend the right rag picker. Tens of thousands of untouchables of all ages still worked as unofficial dustmen and women across the country. Every morning, they came pushing their barrows, calling, “Kooray Wallah!” and took away all the household rubbish. In the colony’s open rubbish dump, surrounded by cows, goats, dogs and crows, they would sift through piles of stinking muck by hand, separating biodegradable waste from the plastic wrappers, aluminium foil, tin cans and glass bottles.

  Flush had had no difficulty whatsoever scoring Gupta’s garbage, even though he lived on his own in a posh complex called Celestial Tower, which, according to a hoarding outside the front gate, provided a “corporate environment” in which residents could “Celebrate the New India!” But so far, Puri’s promising young operative had discovered nothing incriminating.

  “No condom, no booze, no taapshelf magazine,” he’d told his boss the day before on the phone.

  Gupta subscribed to publications such as The Economist and The Wall Street Journal Asia. He was strictly veg and ate a lot of curd and papayas. His only tipple apart from Diet Coke was Muscle Milk, a sports drink. He also used a number of different hair-and skin-care products.

  Socially, he mixed in corporate circles and attended conferences with titles like BPO in the Financial Sector—Challenges & Opportunities. He visited the temple once a week and kept a small puja shrine in his bedroom, complete with photographs of his parents, who lived in Allahabad, and a number of effigies, including Ganesh, Hanuman and the goddess Bahuchar Mata.

  Gupta employed a cook, who came for two hours in the afternoon; a sweeper, who, along with the floors, was charged with washing the three bathroom-cum-toilets every day; and a cleaner who was responsible for wiping everything the sweeper wasn’t assigned to do.

  The latter had told Flush that her employer was a private man who was meticulously tidy. Her only gripe was that he had recently purchased a “dhobi machine,” which she resented because it had robbed her of the income she had been earning from washing his clothes.

  The sweeper had grumbled about the low pay and the fact that Gupta shed a lot of hair, which blocked the shower drain in the master-bathroom-cum-toilet. She’d also had plenty to say about the memsahib down the hallway, who was apparently carrying on with another housewife in flat 4/67.

  Gupta’s driver had not divulged any salacious secrets about his employer either. The two bottles of Old Monk rum with which Flush had plied him had elicited no stories of “three-to-the-bed” orgies, nights of cocaine-fueled debauchery or illicit visits to secret love children. Apparently, Gupta spent most evenings either playing golf or watching golf on ESPN.

  “He’s an oversmart kind of guy,” Flush had concluded.

  Ordinarily at this stage in a matrimonial case, Puri would have advised his client against any further investigation. But he wasn’t leaving anything to chance and had his team go to phase two.

  Flush had been charged with tapping the subject’s phone lines and tailing him. And that very evening, assuming he could make it back to Delhi, Puri was planning to gate-crash a premarriage party Gupta was having in his apartment, to plant a couple of bugs.

  Puri explained the plan to Brigadier Kapoor, but he still sounded dissatisfied.

  “What about his qualifications? Have you checked on them?” he asked.

  “Gupta attended Delhi University as advertised. That much is confirmed.”

  “Any girly friends?”

  “We did interviews with two batchmates. Both told that Gupta kept himself to himself. A very studious fellow, it seems. Didn’t so much as talk to females. No reports of hanky-panky. Equally, he was strictly teetotal. Never touched so much as one drop of alcohol or bhang.”

  “Other marriages?”

  “We’re getting on top of the registers, sir.”

  “What about his time in Dubai? What was he doing there?”

  “Working for a U.S. bank. I’ve contacted my counterpart in West Asia. A highly proficient fellow. He’s asking around.”

  “Any affairs?”

  “With females, sir?”

  “Males, females—anything?”

  “No indication, sir.”

  Brigadier Kapoor let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Listen, Puri, I want you on the case around the clock,” he reiterated. “Time is running short. The marriage is only three weeks away. I’m more convinced than ever that something is not right with this man. He came for tea the other day to meet my dear wife and I could see it in his eyes. As plain as day. There’s something missing.

  “Now,” Brigadier Kapoor carried on, after clearing his throat. “I know a thing or two about men, Puri. When you’ve fought alongside them, sent them into battle, seen them felled by enemy fire and bleeding to death in front of your very eyes, you become a good
judge of a man’s character. This man is hiding something and I want to know what it is. I’ll expect to hear from you day after.”

  Munnalal lived at the far end of a long, dirty lane overhung with a rat’s nest of exposed wires and crisscrossing cables. Caught within these tendrils, like bugs in a spider’s web, forlorn paper kites and plastic bags floundered.

  The lane and its narrower tributaries, which branched off into a seemingly endless warren, were lined with terraces of tall, narrow brick houses. Their diminutive front doors were overlaid with iron latticework and daubed with red swastikas to ward off the evil eye.

  Puri had to abandon the Ambassador at the far end of the lane and proceed on foot.

  He was acutely conscious of how conspicuous he appeared in such impoverished surroundings. Many of those he passed eyed him with apprehension, assuming, no doubt, that he was a plainclothes cop, government official or rich landlord.

  A woman sitting on the front step of her home, picking lice from her daughters’ hair, dropped her gaze when she spotted Puri drawing near. Farther on, three old men crouched on their haunches against a wall, turned, looked him up and down through narrowed eyes and then muttered surreptitious comments about him to one another.

  Only the neighborhood’s squealing children, who ran back and forth playing with all manner of makeshift toys—metal rims of bicycle wheels, inflated condoms—were not intimidated by the detective’s official bearing. Grinning from ear to ear, they cried with outstretched hands, “Hello, Mister! One pen!”

  Fortunately, no one paid any attention to Tubelight, who led the way, walking ten steps ahead of the detective without giving any indication that they were together. Dressed in the simple garb of a laborer, he had spent the past few hours in one of the neighborhood eateries, playing teen patta with a group of local men.

  Gleaning information about Munnalal, who was not well liked in the neighborhood, had proven easy. Word was that he had come into a good deal of money in the past few months and gone from driving the cars of rich sahibs to owning a Land Cruiser of his own. He hired out the vehicle in the local transport bazaar, mostly to “domestic tourists” visiting Rajasthan from elsewhere in India.