“You don’t understand.” Sameer’s eyes were like dark tunnels into the recesses of a trouble mind.
“What don’t I understand?” asked Singh, hoping the man wasn’t going to talk about youth and first love and all those things that Singh had forgotten, if he’d ever known.
“I wasn’t the father.”
“What did you say?”
“I wasn’t the father. Ashu and I – we never, you know, we never…” he trailed off and buried his face in his hands, leaving a lardy inspector to stare at the top of his head with genuine, undisguised consternation.
Twelve
The next morning, Singh set out early. He hailed a cab – with AC – and directed it to Kirpal Singh’s family home in Bandra. An hour later he was still sitting in traffic. How many crimes were solved in a city where setting out to question a suspect could take half the morning? And he didn’t have a whole lot of time. Not with the funeral that afternoon. The inspector stared out of the window glumly and wondered whether he should have waited and cornered the young man at the ceremony. His wife would not have been amused but it would have saved him this particularly dull journey. The car inched forward a few yards and the driver said, “Now we are moving, Sardarji!”
Singh’s chin came to rest on his chest and his lips turned down at the corners. The fact of the matter was that he was spoilt. Singapore was such a pleasant place to hunt down murderers. It was easy to get around, hardly any traffic. The killers had nowhere to run, the island was so small. The air was clean and the trees green so his health didn’t deteriorate as he pursued his vocation. He stared sadly at a dusty spindly tree surrounded by a protective cordon of railings. Here, even the trees were in prison. A sudden influx of auto rickshaws weaving between the cars was a source of relief rather than fear. It meant he was getting closer to Bandra. And sure enough, in ten minutes, the blue and white car drew up outside a large bungalow, hidden from the road by tall palms and a frangipani tree which was festooned in hot pink blossoms.
“This is house, Sardarji. I am waiting for you, yes?”
“Yes,” said Singh immediately.
“Very good, very good.” The man looked delighted and Singh supposed that the two-way fare was a bonus. It was a bonus for him as well. He didn’t fancy trekking over cracked paving stones in the hot sun seeking a reliable driver who wasn’t going to fleece him or murder him.
He turned to look at the whitewashed house. Cracks in the paint and plaster revealed concrete patches that reminded Singh of open bedsores. Crimson patterned balconies, red stone walls and, rather fetchingly, a red – or maybe rust-coloured – bicycle leaning against the front gate, gave the house a cheerful air. The windows were tall and thin and filled with the opaque glass that was still to be found in old-fashioned bathroom windows in Singapore. Freshly painted black metal grilles indicated to strangers that they were not welcome. A stone cutting on the wall suggested that the house had been built in the eighteen hundreds. It certainly had an air of dilapidated grandeur. Singh was prepared to believe his wife’s gossip that Kirpal’s family had pedigree but had fallen on hard times.
Singh walked up to the front door, noted more peeling paint and damp-stained crevices, found a shiny brass button and pushed at it firmly with a fat forefinger. He could see shadowy movement through the glass as if the residents had abandoned their corporeal forms in favour of a more wraithlike existence. There was the sound of numerous locks being snapped back and Kirpal Singh appeared on the stoop.
“Inspector Singh?” he asked, his tone polite but distant.
“That’s me.”
“Please come in. Tara Baba asked me to speak to you.”
“Everyone dances to Tara Singh’s tune,” agreed the policeman.
The tall man with the plump lips and dark eyes looked put out at the suggestion. “Not at all,” he said. “But I am happy to fall in with his wishes as a matter of courtesy.”
Singh paused to wonder why anyone would have thought this pedantic fellow was an appropriate husband for Ashu Kaur. A cat appeared at the door and Kirpal picked it up and stroked it gently. Perhaps she’d agreed because he was basically a nice guy. An arranged marriage must have felt like a real lottery to the independent-minded young woman.
“May I come in?” he asked pointedly and Kirpal moved aside with an air of reluctance.
“Is it true that Tara Baba doesn’t think it was suicide?” asked Kirpal as Singh entered the living room which had a tiled black and white floor, heavy curtains, and leather sofas. Two standing lamps cast a gloomy light. Why didn’t Kirpal just draw the curtains? The dislike of most Indians for natural light was a curious feature of the race. Perhaps they feared a darkening of their not-so-lily-white skin?
“Nope, he thinks it was murder.”
“I just can’t believe that.”
Singh didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he stared at a display cabinet housing various tarnished sporting trophies won by previous generations.
After a few long moments, Kirpal cleared his throat and glanced at his watch. Singh decided to take the hint.
“How close were you and Ashu?” he asked.
“Not very.”
“Give me details.”
“We met a couple of times before agreeing to the marriage. Tara Baba and my mother had already approved, of course.”
“And you decided to go ahead with it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? She was young and beautiful, with a good job. There was nothing to find fault with.”
“Her expectations were good as well,” remarked Singh.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I hear your lot has fallen on hard times.”
“We are certainly not as well off as Tara Singh,” he said, without batting an eyelid. “But I think you will find that most people thought it a good match.”
The haughtiness of pedigree, thought Singh admiringly. He wished he had some of that. Then Mrs. Singh would have known her place from the very beginning. She’d arrived demure and biddable but it wasn’t long before her Stalinist tendencies had become apparent and now their home was run like a gulag with him, Inspector Singh of the Singapore Police, the sole prisoner.
Kirpal continued, “We met a few times after the engagement to discuss wedding arrangements and so forth.”
“And you got along?”
“Very well.”
“So the news of her death must have come as a shock.”
“We were devastated, of course.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” asked Singh rudely.
“My mother and me. My father is deceased.”
“Have to look elsewhere to restore the family fortunes, eh, now that Ashu’s gone?”
There was a grimace but no immediate answer to the blatant provocation.
“I guess you were very disappointed to find out about Sameer.”
“Who’s that?”
“You didn’t know? The family didn’t tell you?”
“Didn’t know what?”
“That she was in love with a nice Moslem boy.”
“That’s not true!” He pressed his lips together so firmly that they appeared bloodless.
“I guess when you found out you must have been really mad, huh?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Angry enough to kill her?”
“I tell you, I didn’t know!”
“What was it – a jealous rage because you really fancied her – or was it her dowry?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“So it was the family honour you were protecting then? A bit embarrassing really for you and your mother to be cast aside for some outsider…” He leaned forward like an old woman with a juicy morsel of gossip. “I have to tell you that Sameer is a real Bollywood leading man.”
Kirpal was shaking his head with the rhythm of a metronome.
“Might have been hard for mum to find you another bride – not when
the first one ran straight into the arms of the first available alternative?”
“I can’t believe you’re saying these things.”
“Did you spot her with Sameer? Bundle her into your car? Take her somewhere and kill her? Was the fire to cover your tracks?”
“I think you’re quite mad,” said Kirpal and he sounded as if he meant it.
Singh leaned forward, picked up a lemonade, gulped it down thirstily and slumped back in his armchair. Kirpal’s elbows were on his knees which were bouncing up and down as if he was entertaining a small child with a ‘horsy’ ride.
“Did you know about the child when you did it?”
“What are you saying?”
“Ashu was pregnant with your child when she died…”
Singh realised he’d over-reached when Kirpal burst into genuine if somewhat tearful laughter. “Now I know you’re mad. How can Ashu be pregnant with my child when I’ve never ever been in her company alone?”
♦
The coffin was a pine affair with gold-plated handles and a massive curved lid. Fortunately, it seemed to be airtight. Even Singh’s sensitive nose for death could not pick up any unpleasant odours. Tara Singh sat next to it, upright like a crash-test dummy just before impact. Singh felt his heart go out to the old man. He remembered the cadaver, blackened by fire, lips drawn back and hair singed to the roots. And the intact ear-lobe with the glittering stone. If anything, that had emphasised the horror, reminding Singh that this had been a young creature with a fondness for coloured stones and the other accoutrements of youth – like first love.
His wife sidled up to him.
“What happens next?” he asked.
“Body leaves the house. We go to the gurdwara for prayers. Priests will do some last rites. Then the men go to the cremation grounds,” answered his wife.
Singh grimaced. He’d never been very good at funerals, preferring to skip them unless his wife issued a three-line whip. Mind you, weddings were worse. At least at funerals, his customary glum expression at family events looked appropriate. He suddenly remembered the funeral pyre of the senior Singh, the body perched on a pile of wood on a blackened cement platform. It had been his job to touch a lighted torch to the pyre and watch as the body of his father was engulfed in flames. At the time, overwhelmed with grief and shock, flinching from the incredible heat, he’d noticed that there was no smell of burning flesh. Just the richness of sandalwood and the mustiness of soot.
Earlier, his uncles had tied a turban around his head, indicating that, as the oldest son, he was now the head of the household. As if he could ever fill the shoes, or the turban, of that upright man with opinions as stiff as his starched trousers.
“So what did Kirpal say?” asked his wife in a penetrating whisper.
“That he wasn’t the father.”
“Really? Then who?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” said Singh.
“You believed him?”
“I don’t know what to believe,” admitted Singh.
“Must be Sameer,” she continued. “Maybe too ashamed to tell the truth.”
The inspector remembered the shaking shoulders of Sameer Khan when he’d heard about the pregnancy. “No, I don’t think so,” he replied. He added provocatively, “I don’t think he’s got anything to be ashamed of either.”
His wife’s flared nostrils indicated what she thought of his morals but she didn’t take him up on it. She was still reeling from the news that Sameer and Kirpal had both taken themselves out of the running.
“Another boyfriend?” he asked.
“Hard to imagine it.”
“I don’t plan to try,” he retorted.
“Even when the matter is serious, you must play the fool.” Mrs. Singh retied her dupatta as if she was adjusting a noose. “Ashu was a good girl…” she started and then lost her train of thought.
Singh didn’t blame her. He still knew in his heart that Ashu was ‘a good girl’ – a scientist who helped out in the slums near her office – but he didn’t use the same criteria to determine ‘goodness’ as his wife and her cronies. By their standards, the dead girl wasn’t exactly an example to her peers. A Moslem boyfriend, pregnant, and now dead. It was enough to try the patience of the most liberal members of the Sikh community.
“It’s not possible that she had three boyfriends,” said Mrs. Singh. “So it must have been Sameer – or the MBA.”
“Well, it wasn’t immaculate conception,” muttered her husband.
Their whispered conversation was put to an end by Tara Singh. He stood up and beckoned Singh imperiously, turning away as he did so. He was in no doubt that the policeman would treat his summons as an order, not an invitation. The inspector hurried in his direction, guiltily aware that his mind had been wandering all over the case. A subconscious effort, perhaps, to ignore the elephant in the room – or, in this case, the coffin on the carpet. Were he and his wife the only ones present who knew that there were two in that coffin?
He followed Tara Singh out onto the small balcony decorated with a few dusty potted plants. The old man looked him up and down with a pensive expression tinged with disappointment. Once again, the inspector was reminded of his own father. How many times had he seen that same look on his face? He straightened his back and squared his shoulders. He wasn’t a recalcitrant teenager about to feel his father’s belt any more. He didn’t have to cower before the old man’s hard-eyed gaze.
“Tanvir told me about that Moslem boy.”
So much for warning Singh that the information would have a deleterious effect on his grandfather’s health. He’d probably hoped to provoke a heart attack and inherit, thought Singh.
“His name is Sameer Khan,” said Singh. He was tired of the attitude of his wife’s family towards that Moslem boy.
“When were you planning to tell me?”
“Eventually,” responded Singh. “Now didn’t seem the right time.”
There was a silence between the men and Singh longed for a cigarette. It was like a physical ache. He would have turned his broad back on a cold beer and his wife’s cooking for the rush of tobacco smoke into his lungs.
“When my son died, I brought up his children as if they were my own,” said Tara Singh.
“I’m sure they’re very grateful.”
“Grateful? The girl discards everything she’s been taught to have a relationship with an outsider? And Ranjit? He’s a huge disappointment to me.”
“Tanvir?” asked Singh hopefully. He didn’t like the fellow but maybe he was cut from Tara’s cloth.
“Counting down the days to when he can light my funeral pyre.”
Three grandchildren. Three strikes.
“Ashu made a mistake in your eyes – I understand that,” said Singh. “But she was still a very special girl.”
Tara turned to stare out over the city of twinkling lights and beggars.
“Just think how generous she was – helping out at the slum.”
He turned around to meet Singh’s eyes. “Did you find out anything further about the outbreak of disease?”
“Still looking into it,” replied Singh, not entirely accurately. The pregnancy had caused him to put all other leads on the back burner.
“You’re wasting your time,” said Tara.
“What would you rather I did?”
“Prove that this Moslem boy killed Ashu!”
“Is that what you really believe?”
“Of course – he must have been in a jealous rage.”
“He thinks it was the family – some sort of honour killing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“One of you discovered the relationship between Ashu and Sameer and killed her to avenge the family honour.”
“Don’t be absurd – you’ve been watching too many soap operas.”
Singh shifted uncomfortably. It did sound absurd to accuse anyone of a practice as archaic as honour killing. On the other hand, they’d been happ
y to countenance an arranged marriage which some would argue was also a trifle old-fashioned. He reminded himself that Ashu was dead and had last been seen with an unidentified man wearing a turban. And the family was adamant that Sameer Khan was unsuitable. How far were they prepared to go to punish such a transgression?
“Besides,” added Tara Singh, “none of us knew about this Moslem.”
“That’s not entirely accurate,” said Singh. “Tanvir knew.”
Tanvir appeared like an apparition summoned by a witch doctor. Another young man, with the strong features of someone with Punjabi ancestry but without the turban, bangle and beard of Sikhdom, was by his side.
“This is my friend from Canada, Tara Baba. He wishes to pay his condolences.”
There was a tired nod in response. The old man was still standing ramrod straight but Singh could see the whites of his knuckles where he was grasping the head of his cane. The upright posture and air of command were an act of will, not of strength.
“I’m Jaswant Singh,” explained the man as he stepped into the halo of light from the single hanging lamp. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Singh tried to ignore the Sikh jokes from his schooldays that immediately popped into his head. How many Singhs does it take to change a light bulb? Jas-want Singh.
“You’re from Canada?” inquired Tara.
“Yes, sir.”
“A lot of Sikhs have found their homes there.”
“Canada has a large Sikh population,” agreed Jaswant.
“Many of them have abandoned the old ways.”
Jaswant ran his hand over his clean-shaven jaw sheepishly. “You’re right, sir, but it is difficult sometimes to maintain the traditions in the West. I assure you that I have the interests of Sikhs close to my heart.”
“What are you doing in India?”
“Visiting friends and relatives – I have some business to take care of as well.”
A Curious Indian Cadaver Page 16