A Rising Man

by Abir Mukherjee

  For some reason, the phrase made me uncomfortable.

  ‘Why unfortunately?’

  ‘Because documents would occasionally go missing and I never knew whether they’d been lost, mis-filed or if MacAuley had them at home.’

  ‘So his death must have complicated things.’

  ‘It’s caused a few problems,’ she continued. ‘As I told you yesterday, MacAuley was responsible for a whole raft of matters. A lot of things in the department don’t move without his signature. Suddenly, we couldn’t find certain documents that Mr Stevens urgently needed to sign in MacAuley’s stead. In the end, I had to go round to Mr MacAuley’s flat to see if they were there.’

  ‘Did you find them?’

  ‘Yes, thankfully. There’d have been hell to pay if I hadn’t. But Stevens didn’t get round to signing them till this morning. In the end, all we had was a delay of a day or so. Not ideal, but not the end of the world either.’

  That explained her presence at MacAuley’s flat. I breathed a sigh of relief, and with it, my doubts about Miss Grant gratefully dissolved.

  ‘So how’s your investigation going?’ she asked.

  I considered giving her the usual flannel. It would have been the proper thing to do. But I have a weakness when it comes to beautiful women. They disarm me. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t like to disappoint them. I finished my coffee and told her the truth: that so far, my inquiries had generated more heat than light and that I felt people were holding things back.

  ‘I hope you don’t mean me, Sam?’ she said.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said hastily. ‘I think you’re about the only one who hasn’t.’

  ELEVEN

  I LEFT ANNIE on the steps of Writers’ Building and walked back to Lal Bazar, making best use of whatever shade was offered by the buildings en route.

  There were three new yellow chits waiting on my desk and I was starting to suspect that my office might double as a post office sorting room when I was away. The first was another note from Daniels, asking to see me. This one was marked ‘URGENT’ and I crushed it and filed it in the bin.

  The next was from Banerjee. He’d spoken to the bearer at the Bengal Club who’d stated that on the night of MacAuley’s murder, Buchan had retired to bed immediately after his guests had left, emerging for breakfast at around ten o’clock the following morning. As for who Buchan had spoken to that night, the sergeant had drawn a blank, with the receptionist either unwilling or unable to divulge the information.

  The third was from Digby. Military intelligence had granted the Commissioner’s request that we once again be given access to the crime scene. ‘Any and all assistance’ would be provided to us. That was a nice touch; like someone punching you in the face, then asking what they could do to help stop the bleeding.

  I lifted the receiver and telephoned Digby’s office. The line rang out. I was about to go looking for him when Banerjee knocked and entered.

  ‘The post-mortem, sir. It’s scheduled for three o’clock. Will you be attending?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And I’d like you there too.’

  Halfway up College Street sits the Medical College Hospital, with the Imperial Police morgue in its basement. Morgues always seem to be in basements, as though being physically underground is a good first step towards the grave. This one was no different to the others: white tiled walls and floor, no natural light, and everywhere, the sickly stench of formaldehyde and raw flesh.

  We were met by a cadaverous-looking pathologist who introduced himself as Dr Lamb. He appeared to be in his fifties, his skin pallid, almost grey, as though he’d started resembling the bodies he worked on. He was kitted out in gumboots and rubber gloves, with a white apron over a blue shirt and red spotted bow tie, and from a distance looked a bit like a retired circus clown.

  He kept the pleasantries brief, then hurried us into the post-mortem theatre. Inside the smell was acrid and the floor slick with water. In the centre of the room stood the dissection table, a large marble slab on which lay MacAuley’s mortal remains, still dressed in his bloodstained tuxedo. The slab was angled downwards on one side towards a drainage channel. On a table next to it were the doctor’s tools of the trade: a collection of hacksaws, drills and knives on loan from the Dark Ages. Two other men were already waiting. The first was a police photographer, replete with box camera, flash bulbs, tripod and plates. The second I took to be Dr Lamb’s assistant, there to transcribe the doctor’s observations; a secretary for the most macabre dictation.

  ‘Right, gentlemen,’ said the doctor jovially, ‘shall we get down to business?’

  He started by cutting through MacAuley’s clothing with a large pair of scissors, like a tailor working lovingly over a mannequin. Once the clothing had been removed, he set to work measuring the body, noting the usual descriptive details, height, hair colour, distinguishing marks, all of which his assistant duly recorded. Methodically, he described MacAuley’s wounds, starting from the missing eyeball and working downwards. As he spoke, he pointed them out to the photographer, who took close-up shots.

  ‘Slight laceration of the tongue, some bruising and discoloration around the mouth. Clear-cut incision on the neck. Most likely caused by a long-bladed knife, moderately sharp. Incision is five inches in length. Commencing two inches below the angle of the jaw. Incision is clean, deviating slightly downwards. Arteries severed.’

  He moved on to the chest. ‘Large puncture wound, three inches wide. Again probably caused by a long-bladed knife. Appears to have punctured a lung.’

  He checked MacAuley’s hands. ‘No defensive cuts.’

  To my left, Banerjee was making odd noises. I looked over. The young sergeant was reciting some heathen mantra under his breath and the colour had drained from his face.

  ‘Is this your first post-mortem, Sergeant?’

  He smiled sheepishly, ‘My second, sir.’

  That was a pity. It’s the second that’s usually the worst. The first, while gruesome, at least has the saving grace of surprise. You don’t really know what’s coming. The second one has no such silver lining. You know exactly what to expect but you’re still not quite prepared for it.

  ‘How did your first one go?’

  ‘I had to leave part way through.’

  I nodded. ‘Well done, Sergeant.’ I watched as he blushed, but I have a habit of teasing subordinates. In my book it’s a compliment.

  Dr Lamb had moved on to washing the body, humming in a deep baritone, like some Inca priest anointing a victim before cutting his heart out. Then, taking a knife, he made an incision from MacAuley’s throat to his abdomen. There was very little blood. He broke open the ribcage, exposing the major organs, and proceeded to remove them one by one. Beside me Banerjee shifted awkwardly. It was never any one thing that tipped you over the edge, it was always a combination: the smells and sounds coming together and reaching a macabre crescendo. Banerjee covered his mouth, then turned and headed hastily for the exit.

  My first few post-mortems I’d been sick as a dog. I couldn’t say why. After all, it wasn’t that different from being in a slaughterhouse. But there’s something about the human psyche that rebels against the physical act of watching a person being reduced to a pile of meat. But human beings adapt. It’s one of our great strengths. Natural reactions can be switched off or, as in my case, destroyed. Three years of watching men being butchered will do that to you. I envied Banerjee his reaction. Rather, I envied him his ability to react.

  I stayed a few minutes longer, watching the good doctor go about his work. Quiet and efficient, as if it were no more mundane than a dentist removing teeth. While he worked, I built a picture of what might have transpired. Bruising around the mouth, no defensive cuts on the hands. It suggested MacAuley’s killer had approached him from behind. Taken him by surprise. Probably covered his mouth to prevent him from calling out. Then slit his throat, judging by the blood splatter at the scene.

  One thing puzzled me, though. The ki
ller clearly knew what he was doing. The incision had been clean, severing the arteries and the windpipe. MacAuley would have been dead in less than a minute. So why the second wound? Why the stab to the chest? The killer must have known MacAuley was as good as dead. Why waste time stabbing him?

  That tied in with something else that had been bothering me. The note. Why ball it up and stick it in MacAuley’s mouth? Surely if you were making a political point, the logical thing to do would have been to leave it visible? I’d originally assumed it was done to make sure it wasn’t lost somehow, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  I’d seen what I needed to see. Anything else of interest would be in the post-mortem report. I turned and headed out in search of Surrender-not and found him sitting on the steps of the college building, his head in his hands. I sat down next to him and offered him a cigarette, extracting one for myself. He accepted gratefully, taking the cigarette in a shaky hand, and for a minute we sat in silence, letting the smoke do its work.

  ‘Does it get any easier?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not sure I will ever get used to it.’

  ‘That might not be such a bad thing.’

  I finished my cigarette and flicked the butt away. Banerjee still appeared shaken by the experience. That wasn’t good. I needed him to focus, and the best way of doing that was to get him back to work. We had two murders to solve, one of which I couldn’t figure out a motive for, and the other for which I had a surfeit of motives, but as yet no solid leads.

  ‘Come on, Sergeant,’ I said, ‘we’ve got work to do.’

  TWELVE

  ‘YOU DIDN’T HAPPEN to go round to MacAuley’s flat last night, did you?’

  In response, Digby almost spat out his tea. ‘What? Why the devil would I do that?’ We were in my cramped office. Surrender-not was in there too, making it nice and cosy. ‘Why d’you ask, old boy?’

  ‘Something MacAuley’s manservant said this morning. He told me some sahib officer had shown up at the flat around eight p.m. asking questions about MacAuley and Cossipore, then left with a load of files from MacAuley’s study.’

  ‘Could he describe the fellow?’

  ‘Tall, blond, moustachioed. That’s why I hoped it might have been you.’

  Digby smiled. ‘Me and about half the officers on the force.’

  ‘You don’t think Taggart’s allocated any other officers to the case, do you?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, you’re his golden boy. You think he’d tell me before he told you?’

  It was a fair point, but I had to make sure. Banerjee stuck up his hand. Both Digby and I stared at him.

  ‘You don’t need permission, Surrender-not. Just speak if you’ve got something to say.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied. ‘I was just wondering how the servant was sure it was a policeman?’

  ‘The man was in uniform.’

  ‘With respect, sir, the military also have white dress uniforms, which look very much like ours. To the untrained eye, there’s not much difference between a white police uniform and a military one.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, Sergeant?’ asked Digby.

  ‘Nothing, sir. I was merely speculating that the officer may not have been a policeman. He may have been military personnel. After all, military intelligence did commandeer the crime scene.’

  It was an interesting observation, one that got me thinking.

  ‘Did you get much else out of the man?’ asked Digby.

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Only that something was troubling MacAuley in recent months. He’d been going out at odd hours, had given up the drink but was recently back on the sauce.’

  ‘Any enemies?’

  ‘To listen to his servant, you’d have thought MacAuley was a saint. Having said that, he doesn’t seem to have got on particularly well with his number two, some fellow called Stevens.’

  ‘Would you like me to organise an interview with him, sir?’ asked Banerjee.

  ‘I’ve already asked MacAuley’s secretary to do so,’ I replied in what I hoped was a neutral tone. ‘There is something I do need you to follow up on, though. I want you to post a guard at MacAuley’s flat. Make sure no one other than the domestic help enters or leaves without our permission, and even they are to be checked to ensure that nothing is removed from the apartment.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Banerjee, scribbling the instructions into his notebook.

  ‘And where are we in terms of tracking down the Reverend Gunn?’ I asked.

  ‘Mixed news on that front, I’m afraid, sir. Our colleagues in Dum Dum inform me that he is the minister at St Andrew’s Church up there, but that he is presently out of town. I understand he is scheduled to return this Saturday.’

  It was yet another delay. It seemed nothing to do with this case would be straightforward. I turned to Digby.

  ‘Everything organised for tonight?’

  ‘Yes, old boy. All set for nine o’clock. We should depart here around eight-ish. That’ll give us plenty of time.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘That just leaves the small matters of interviewing the L-G and having a proper chat with that prostitute.’

  ‘Do you want me to bring her in for questioning?’ asked Digby.

  ‘No,’ I said, looking at my watch. ‘I think a softer approach is called for. I’ll head up there myself. Anyway, there’s something else I need you to do. Do you know anyone in military intelligence?’

  I noticed a momentary tightening in the muscles of his jaw.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the chap who heads up the anti-terrorist unit. Goes by the name of Dawson. He’s a hard-nosed bastard. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Would he be their man dealing with the MacAuley case?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘I want you to set up a meeting with him for me, the sooner the better.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but I should warn you, he’s not the most cooperative of chaps.’

  There wasn’t much more to discuss on the MacAuley case. In truth, all three of us were on edge. The chances of solving a case are greatly diminished if there’s no breakthrough within forty-eight hours. After that, potential witnesses, evidence and momentum all tend to disperse like cigarette smoke on the breeze and the trail goes cold. We were getting close to the two-day mark and still had nothing. We sorely needed a break and I hoped the meeting with Digby’s snitch would provide it.

  I turned to the little matter of the murdered railwayman.

  ‘Have you pulled the file on Pal?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Banerjee. He flipped through his notebook. ‘Hiren Pal, aged twenty, an employee of the Eastern Bengal Railway Company. Comes from a family of railwaymen – his father is a station master’s assistant up at Dum Dum Cantonment. He’d been employed by the railways in various capacities for the last nine years, most recently as a guard—’

  ‘He’s been working on the railways since he was eleven?’ I interrupted. ‘Isn’t that a trifle young?’

  Banerjee gave a wry smile. ‘The authorities are somewhat lackadaisical when it comes to recording the births of much of the non-European population. The chances are he was at least several years older. I understand it’s quite common for railway workers to lower their ages on official documents.’

  Digby laughed. ‘You see what sort of people we’re dealing with here, Wyndham! That’s the vanity of the Bengali for you. Even the bloody coolies lie about their age!’

  Banerjee squirmed. ‘If I may, sir. I doubt vanity has much to do with it. The fact is, the railways impose a policy of retirement at the age of fifty-eight. Unfortunately, the pension provided to native Indians is generally too meagre for a family to live on. By lowering their ages on the forms I believe the men hope to work for a few years more and thus provide for their families just that little bit longer.’

  ‘That’s fascinating, Sergeant,’ said Digby, ‘but it has little to do with why the chap was killed.’

&nb
sp; ‘Why was he killed?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said Digby. ‘As I said before, it’s a botched robbery. Dacoits attack the train on the off chance of finding cash in the safes. When they discover there isn’t any, they take out their frustration on the guard. He dies, they panic and run off.’

  Banerjee shook his head. ‘But they were there for an hour. Why not rob the passengers or take the mail sacks? If you know what to look for, those sacks probably contain a lot of value.’

  ‘Remember, Sergeant,’ said Digby, ‘your average illiterate dacoit won’t have the first clue about the value of the mail sacks.’

  I had trouble believing this was the work of illiterate peasants. For one thing, it was too well planned. For another, there were those tyre tracks leaving the scene. Peasants would be lucky to have access to a bullock cart, let alone motorised transport.

  ‘I think the whole enterprise was planned extremely thoroughly,’ I said. ‘The two men on the train knew exactly when and where to pull the communication cord so that their accomplices could storm the train.’

  ‘So why kill the guard, and why not take anything?’ asked Digby.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe they hit the train specifically to kill the guard?’ ventured Banerjee.

  ‘Unlikely,’ I replied. ‘To organise such a complex operation simply to kill a railway guard seems far-fetched.’

  ‘Then why?’ asked Digby.

  A theory began to form in my head. ‘That they didn’t rob the passengers or take the mail sacks suggests they were looking for something specific, something they thought was on the train. When they couldn’t find it, they beat up the guard in the hope that he might tell them where it was. But he wouldn’t have known anything and they ended up killing him. My guess is they’d have started on Perkins, the conductor, next, but they ran out of time.’

  Digby sucked his teeth. ‘How can you possibly know that?’

  ‘I don’t. It’s a guess. But the whole thing seems to have been planned meticulously. They must have had a railway timetable. Remember, the train was running late. If it was on time, it would have been attacked over an hour earlier. That would have given them at least two hours of darkness to complete whatever it was they wanted to do. It can’t be coincidence that they pulled out just before sunrise and ten minutes before another train arrived on the scene. From what the driver told us, they left methodically and on a schedule.’