I ended the call and forced myself to concentrate on MacAuley. The more I thought about it, the more I feared I’d been led like a dancing monkey down a path to Sen. Worse still, I’d gone down that path willingly. From the moment we’d met Digby’s informant, I’d dropped all other avenues of inquiry. Christ, I hadn’t even followed up on a search of the murder locus. The investigation, my investigation, had become a mere sideshow in someone else’s game.
I telephoned the pit and asked Surrender-not to come to my office. A few minutes later he knocked and stuck his head round the door. He looked sullen.
‘You requested my presence, sir?’
He was still upset with me.
‘Yes, Sergeant, I asked to see you. Don’t just stand there, come in, we have work to do.’
Surprised, Banerjee entered and closed the door behind him. He sat down at the desk and pulled notebook and pencil from his breast pocket.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ I said, ‘about our conversation earlier. There are a number of questions about this case that remain to be answered. It seems to me we need to find those answers if we’re going to be certain of Sen’s guilt.’
‘Or his innocence,’ Banerjee interjected.
‘We’re going to conduct a proper inquiry,’ I continued, ‘get back to what we were doing before we ever heard of Sen. There’s a lot to do. We need to find out exactly what MacAuley was doing up in Cossipore on Tuesday night. We need to speak to that prostitute you saw at the window. I also want a fingertip search of the crime scene carried out. We need to find the murder weapon if possible. And did you get a chance to take a look into the business interests of Mr Stevens, MacAuley’s former deputy?’
‘Not yet. I’ll check with Companies House.’
‘Good. Then there’s MacAuley’s friends. I want to talk to James Buchan again. And MacAuley’s preacher friend.’
‘The Reverend Gunn was due back in Calcutta today, sir.’
‘Right,’ I said, ‘we’ll head up there tomorrow.’
‘What about Sub-inspector Digby?’ asked Banerjee. ‘He’s convinced Sen is the killer.’
‘Let me worry about Digby,’ I said.
Banerjee finished his notes and looked up. ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’
‘That’s all for now.’
As he left the room, my thoughts turned to Digby. He might be as pompous as the doorman at the Savoy, but the truth was I needed him. His local expertise was vital if I was to have any chance of finding out what had really happened to MacAuley, though convincing him that Sen wasn’t guilty was going to be tough. What’s more, the intelligence that Sen had returned to Calcutta had come from one of Digby’s informants. A quick conviction might give Digby the promotion he probably deserved. At the very least he’d have the gratitude of some powerful friends in Section H. And all I had to convince him to the contrary were my instincts. I’d need a miracle. An appeal to St Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, might have helped, but I didn’t have his number, so I picked up the telephone and called through to Digby’s office instead.
‘I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation,’ he exclaimed, pacing the floor in front of my desk. ‘The bastard’s obviously guilty.’
‘We can’t prove it beyond reasonable doubt.’
‘We don’t need to prove it beyond reasonable doubt. Why do you think we have the Rowlatt Acts? So we can lock up terrorists like Sen and not worry about them getting off on technicalities. Besides, he’s a wanted man, responsible for a whole host of previous crimes from sedition to murder. Are you telling me that means nothing to you?’
‘Of course not,’ I replied, ‘but this is hardly a technicality. We have absolutely no solid evidence linking the man to MacAuley. And what if we’re wrong and the killers are at large? We might still be looking at a terrorist campaign.’
Digby sighed. ‘If it was terrorists that attacked that train – and it’s a big “if” – you said yourself that they didn’t find the cash they were looking for. Given that there haven’t been any further attacks on mail trains in the last few days, it stands to reason that either Sen’s gang was responsible and we’ve killed them all or the attack on the train was just a botched robbery by dacoits.’
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘When are you going to start accepting you’re not in England any more? Sen isn’t some soap-box politician standing in the rain at Speakers’ Corner on a Sunday. He and his ilk are trying to overthrow the legitimate government of India! It’s a life-and-death struggle to them. If that means murdering a civil servant or blowing up a hospital, so be it. They’ll stop at nothing to achieve their goal.’
‘All I’m asking,’ I said, ‘is that we keep investigating till we’ve found the evidence we need to categorically confirm his guilt. I need your help for that.’
That seemed to calm him slightly.
‘Look, old boy,’ he said, ‘it’s a fool’s errand. Sen’s one of the most wanted men in the country. The press have already got a sniff of what’s going on. They’re not stupid, you know. That little pitched battle Section H orchestrated last night has tongues wagging all over Howrah. You think they’re going to miss that? By tomorrow morning, the fact we’ve captured the bastard will be plastered all over the front pages. How do you think Taggart’s going to react if you tell him you’ve got doubts? He’ll hit the roof. And for what? We’ll still be forced to hand Sen over to Section H and believe me, they’ll have him charged and executed by the end of the week.’
‘This discussion is over,’ I said. ‘If there’s a death sentence hanging over a man, I want to make damn sure he’s guilty before I stick his head in the noose. We’re going to keep investigating. I will order you if necessary.’
He stared at me.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said icily. ‘Just remember one thing. There will be a death sentence at the end of all this. Whether it falls on Sen or your career is up to you.’
TWENTY–THREE
SOUTH CALCUTTA. THE heart of White Town.
Leafy suburbs sped past, wide avenues and whitewashed villas hidden behind high hedgerows. Hardly a native in sight, other than the durwans, of course, the surly Indian gatekeepers who controlled all access to their masters’ houses. Occasionally, through gaps in iron gates, there was a fleeting glimpse of a gardener or two, hard at work tending emerald lawns.
South Calcutta, the preserve of first-rate men from second-rate towns like Guildford and Croydon. The home of colonial administrators, military officers and merchants made good. South Calcutta, with its endless rounds of golf and garden parties, its gymkhanas and gin on the veranda. It was a good life. Certainly better than Croydon.
On towards Alipore and Lord Taggart’s residence. The driver slowed and turned into a wide gravel driveway, at the end of which stood a sprawling three-storey house set amidst flower beds and lawns. Only in Calcutta would such a mansion be called a bungalow.
The car pulled up gently under the portico at the entrance to the house. Green vines spiralled up the whitewashed columns. A uniformed constable ran up and swung open the door.
‘Captain Wyndham to see Lord Taggart.’
‘Of course, sir,’ he replied. ‘His Lordship is in the south garden. He’s asked that you join him there. Please follow me.’
With a nod, he turned and set off across a pristine lawn. The scent of English flowers hung in the air. Roses and foxgloves, truly England in a corner of a foreign field, though more than just a corner, an acre or two at least. As we walked, I noticed armed troops discreetly positioned around the building. They were invisible from the road and unobtrusive from the house.
Taggart was enjoying the balmy weather. He was seated at a small cane table, shirt open at the neck, reviewing some papers. He looked up and greeted me with a smile.
‘Hello, Sam. Good to see you, my boy.’ His tone was as warm as the afternoon air. ‘Have a seat,’ he said, gesturing to a chair. ‘What’s your poison? Gin? Whisky?’
‘Whisky, pleas
e.’
He summoned a manservant with the wave of a hand. ‘A whisky for the Captain.’ He turned to me. ‘How do you take it?’
‘Just a splash of water.’
‘And a whisky and soda for me,’ said Taggart.
The servant strode off and soon returned with the drinks.
We toasted each other’s health.
The whisky was sweet and smooth. Not my usual choice, mainly because I couldn’t afford it.
‘What news, Sam?’ he asked. ‘Both the L-G and Section H are straining at the leash for us to hand Sen over. I’m not sure we can hold out much longer. Tell me you’ve got something out of the bastard so we can get it over with.’
I hesitated. I’d spent the journey from Lal Bazar wrestling with the dilemma of what to tell him, and what I was about to say would probably bring about a swift end to my short time in Calcutta. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. I took another sip, then bit the bullet.
‘I don’t think he killed MacAuley.’
My words hung in the air. I took another sip of whisky, a long one this time. If Taggart was about to kick me out, it would be a shame to let the stuff go to waste.
‘What about the attack on the train?’
I shook my head. ‘We’ve got nothing linking him to it.’
Seconds ticked by. In the distance, a green parrot in a pipal tree squawked loudly. Taggart’s reply, when it came, was unexpected.
‘I thought as much.’
That was it. No anger, no threats, no lecture. Of all possible responses, I’d never considered that Taggart might actually agree with me.
‘Sir?’ I said. ‘You think he might be innocent too?’
‘Hardly. He may not have killed MacAuley, but he certainly isn’t innocent. And he’ll be hanged for his crimes too. It’s just that he’ll take the blame for this one as well. In any case, the more pressing issue is the attack on the train. If it wasn’t Sen and his men, then who?’
I was confused.
‘You want me to charge Sen with the attacks even though someone else is probably responsible?’
‘I want you to be smart, Sam. Have you actually found any evidence to support the theory that both crimes were committed by the same people?’
I thought about it. There was none. It had been clumsy presumption on my part. I’d assumed a single, monolithic enemy but there was little to justify it. Taggart sensed as much.
‘There’s nothing to say that the two crimes are linked,’ he continued. ‘So I want you to charge Sen only with MacAuley’s death and hand him over to Section H. Hopefully that’ll get them off your back. Tell them you don’t think he was responsible for the train attack. Get them to hunt for the perpetrators. It’s the sort of thing they’re good at. Once their attention is elsewhere, I want you to keep investigating MacAuley’s death. There’s something odd going on there and I want to know what it is.’
‘And the fact they’ll hang Sen for something he didn’t do doesn’t bother you?’
Taggart sighed. ‘We fight the battles we can win, Sam. I brought you out to Calcutta for a reason. The force is corrupt and it leaks like a bloody sieve. Most of the native men are on the take and half the white officers aren’t much better. I need a man I can trust to help me clean things up. A professional, not beholden to anyone. I can’t have you becoming a casualty in this whole affair. I need you, Sam.’
It wasn’t much of a proposition. Sending an innocent man to the gallows was not what I’d define as a successful outcome, but at this point I had no other option but to accede to Taggart’s request. At least it meant I could continue investigating.
‘Okay,’ I said, fighting down the bile. ‘I’ll do as you say.’
‘Good man. But remember, Sam: Calcutta’s a dangerous place. It’s not just the terrorists you need to be wary of. There are influential people who’d think nothing of destroying you if they feel you threaten their interests. You’ll need my protection to do your job, but I can only protect you so far. That’s why you need to tread lightly. You’ve already made some powerful enemies within the military. Colonel Dawson’s after your head. Another stunt like the one you pulled in Kona last night is out of the question.’
‘What about my officers? Can I trust Digby?’
Taggart sipped his drink. ‘I should think so. There’s no love lost between him and Dawson. Back during the war, Digby wrote a report critical of the conduct of a policing action Dawson and his men carried out somewhere up north. Somehow, Section H got hold of it. They even have their spies within the police force. They put the report in front of the L-G. Made a case that it gave succour to the enemy during time of war. The L-G took their side, tore a strip off the previous commissioner, and made sure there was a black mark on Digby’s permanent file. It’s held back the poor bugger ever since. A man of his experience should have been a DCI by now.’
That was interesting. Maybe it wasn’t just his general ill will towards all things Indian that blinded Digby to the possibility of Sen’s innocence. Maybe he was scared to cross Section H again? After all, he’d done it once and been hung out to dry. As they say, once bitten, twice shy. There was a lesson in there for me too. As he’d already intimated, Taggart would only fight the battles he could win.
‘There’s something more you should know about Sen,’ I said. ‘He claims to have renounced violence.’
‘Really?’ said Taggart. He was about to take a sip of whisky, but stopped, his glass in mid-air.
‘He says he did a lot of thinking while he was in hiding. Came to the conclusion that violent struggle was self-defeating.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘He didn’t strike me as a man who was lying. He says that’s why he came back to Calcutta. Claims he was preaching the gospel of peaceful non-cooperation. Seems to have espoused it with all the zeal of St Paul post Damascus.’
Taggart took a long sip and reflected.
‘Do our friends over at Section H know this?’
‘I don’t think so, but it won’t take them long to find out after we hand him over.’
‘Now that is interesting…’
It was half past seven and I was stood under the colonnaded arcade in front of the Great Eastern Hotel, choking on diesel fumes and watching the trams trundle by. I was dressed for dinner. Black tie, tux and a sling. Darkness had descended some time ago but the evening was still uncomfortably sticky. After the meeting with Taggart, I’d returned to the office and sought out Digby. I didn’t tell him too much, just that Taggart had ordered Sen be charged and handed over to Section H. I told him to deal with the logistics. He’d looked relieved and assured me it was the right thing to do. I held off telling him that I was going to continue the investigation. After all, tomorrow was Sunday, his day off. Why spoil it? The news could wait till Monday. I could manage without him for twenty-four hours.
Banerjee was a different matter. He was more than happy to give up his Sunday for the cause. No surprise there. Besides, as a Hindu, he’d explained, Sunday held no special meaning for him. I’d agreed to meet him at ten the next morning. We’d sort out Sen and then set off for Dum Dum to track down the Reverend Gunn. But Dum Dum was the last thing on my mind now, as I watched Annie Grant slip between the traffic as she crossed the road. She wore a simple blue dress that came down to her knees and afforded me a view of those calves that I so admired.
The street was busy. Chock full of couples out for a Saturday night on the town. Judging by the red hair and redder faces, a fair few of them might have been from Dundee. Annie stood searching the crowd for me. I waved and she broke into a smile, then noticed my arm in a sling and the smile turned to consternation.
‘Sam!’ she exclaimed. ‘What have you done to yourself? You said on the telephone that you weren’t hurt.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘I was just doing my duty. Besides, someone has to keep the good women of Calcutta safe.’
She kissed me tenderly on the cheek. ‘That’s just a little thank-you
on behalf of the women of Calcutta,’ she said, taking my arm and leading me towards the hotel.
Outside the entrance a British constable stood directing traffic.
‘Isn’t that odd?’ I said. ‘What’s a white officer doing on traffic duty?’
Annie smiled. ‘This is the Great Eastern, Sam, the finest hotel this side of Suez. This is where the cream of white society come out to play. It would hardly be proper for them to have to be cautioned by a native when they come out of the hotel roaring drunk now, would it? Just think of the scandal.’
We entered a foyer not much smaller than a cathedral. The room sparkled, decorated with crystal chandeliers and more marble than the Taj Mahal. Annie was right, the cream of Calcutta society had come out to play. Military officers in dress uniform, businessmen, fashionable young ladies in silk and satin. The room buzzed with the sound of conversation as a dozen native hotel staff fluttered around the distinguished guests, like those little fish that tend to sharks. Impeccably turned out in starched white uniforms, they waited discreetly, ready to be summoned to freshen a glass or refill a plate before fading once more into the background. Somewhere close by, a string quartet was playing some Viennese rubbish.
‘How about a drink before dinner?’ Annie asked.
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘It might help get the taste of petrol out of my throat.’
I followed her down a glittering corridor, past hotel boutiques, a barbers and what looked like the entrance to Harrods department store boxed up, miniaturised and packed off to the tropics. At the end stood a set of swing doors, beside a brass plaque with the legend Wilson’s affixed on the wall. We entered the bar. Like the Red Elephant, it was dark and subdued like a cellar. In one corner, a native dressed in black tie sat behind a grand piano and played softly. A long bar stretched the length of the room and at the far end stood an emaciated barman in a uniform that looked as though it belonged to someone a few sizes bigger. There weren’t many patrons to keep him busy, just a few barflies nursing their drinks. In the shadows of a velvet-lined booth, a young couple whispered sweet nothings to each other. The barman made a show of cleaning a glass with a checked cloth, studiously ignoring us as we approached.
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