A Curious Indian Cadaver

by Shamini Flint

  For some reason, this last statement seemed to have an effect on Tanvir who slapped his friend on the back affectionately. “Maybe we can work together sometime, bro – a joint venture between us,” he said.

  The older men scowled simultaneously. The replacement of the traditional word ‘bhai’ meaning ‘brother’ with the American abbreviation had annoyed them both.

  ♦

  Cremations were not really his cup of tea, decided Singh. And looking around the very crowded room, he could see that there were others who felt the same way. Not his wife, who was in her element, her face the perfect combination of sorrow and interest that marked her down as a family member who had not known the deceased personally. The other women in the room would be able to read her expression and the status it conveyed. He wondered how his wife had achieved such expertise – years of practice while he’d been coming up with far-fetched excuses to avoid family gatherings?

  As he watched, a young girl with a mass of curly hair sidled up to his wife. Mrs. Singh greeted her with the familiarity of previous acquaintance and he guessed that this was Farzana, the friend who had known about Sameer and been called to meet Ashu just before her death.

  The American, Tyler Junior, arrived to pay his respects and now stood awkwardly with his back to a wall. He tried to look inconspicuous which was difficult as he was the tallest man present as well as the whitest.

  Singh sauntered over. “It’s good of you to come here,” he said in a friendly tone which he did not feel.

  “Have to do the right thing by Tara, I guess.”

  “I’m sure he appreciates your thoughtfulness.”

  There was a shrug of burly shoulders. “How’s the investigation going – any light at the end of the tunnel?”

  “Of an oncoming train.”

  “I heard you had a chat with the boyfriend.”

  Singh almost smiled. The American could not resist embarking on a fishing expedition.

  “Yup.”

  “Did he have anything to say?”

  “Nothing much.”

  There was a pregnant pause which the inspector broke.

  “How come you didn’t tell me about Sameer and Ashu?”

  “None of my business,” retorted Tyler. “You seem to have found out anyway.”

  “We have our methods,” Singh whispered, winking at the other man knowingly and was rewarded with a look that suggested Tyler had him pegged as the buffoon he was pretending to be.

  “But,” he added, “people should leave investigating to the professionals.”

  “What do you mean?” The question was cursory, his interest in the answer minimal.

  “Ashu was doing some poking around too.” Singh sniffed with disdain. “What does she know about such things? You must have method and organisation. You can’t just run around making allegations without proof.”

  “What’re you getting at?”

  “She seemed to think there was something funny going on at the factory.”

  “Like what for instance?”

  “Don’t really know – I’m not a scientist.”

  “I am a scientist so perhaps you should run her theory by me.”

  “People in the slums are falling ill.”

  “That’s hardly news.”

  “Some strange symptoms – red lips and cheeks, erratic behaviour.”

  “Could be anything.” The tone was dismissive. “Cholera, dengue, malaria, rabies – you name it, they have it.”

  “So you don’t share Ashu’s view that the outbreak of disease has something to do with the factory?” Singh had inched closer to the other man until he was glaring at him from a distance of a couple of feet.

  “Of course not. How could that possibly be the case?”

  “Leaking pipes, poisonous run-off, industrial sabotage?”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Did Ashu ever raise the issue with you?”

  “No way!”

  “Not the morning of the day she disappeared?”

  Tyler’s light blue eyes stared at him with watery intensity. Singh knew he was trying to figure out what the policeman knew about that last altercation so helpfully reported by Mrs. Bannerjee.

  His answer was succinct and to the point. “No.”

  “But she came to see you?”

  “Might have done,” said Tyler at last, opting to hedge. “A lot of people pop by during the day if they want to discuss something, report something, just have a chat.” He added rather desperately, “I operate an open door policy with my staff.”

  Singh gazed at him admiringly. “I see – it must be difficult to distinguish between all those employees popping by to chew the cud and the granddaughter of the owner accusing you of industrial pollution on the morning of her disappearance and subsequent death.”

  A telltale redness was spreading from the back of the man’s neck up his cheeks. Caucasians were much more fun to question, decided Singh. Their colouring was so much more revealing. Not like Sikhs with their turbans and facial hair.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Tyler.

  “I have a witness” – where would investigators be without prying secretaries? – “who is prepared to testify that voices were raised at your meeting.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “That there is an unhappy nexus – for you – between the quarrel you had with her and the death of Ashu Kaur.”

  “Are you accusing me of having something to do with Ashu’s death?”

  “Don’t know about police methods in the United States,” remarked Singh, “but where I come from a person last seen having an argument with someone who later turns up dead goes straight to the top of the list of suspects.”

  “But Ashu committed suicide!”

  “That’s not what her grandfather believes…and I’m coming round to his point of view.”

  “But that’s just insane,” protested Tyler. “Why would I kill her?”

  “Because any evidence of negligence or malpractice at the site would have cost you that retirement package? You might even spend some time in an Indian prison. Not an experience that you’ll enjoy – or survive. You have motives in spades.”

  “You can’t prove anything.”

  “Not yet,” said Singh. “But I’m working on it.”

  “And if you spread any of these vicious unproven rumours – I’ll sue you for slander.”

  “I’m running scared,” agreed Singh amicably.

  Tyler added with sudden insight, “I’ll bet your policemen bosses in Singapore don’t know you’re freelancing here in India – if you persist with this, I’ll have your badge.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just have me killed – like Ashu?” asked Singh and then took a hasty step back as the large American looked as if he was willing to take up the suggestion on the spot.

  He extricated himself from the encounter with Tyler by dint of hurrying over to his wife’s side.

  “Don’t tell me you were investigating the death here?” was his wife’s opening remark.

  “I shan’t tell you if you don’t want me to,” agreed Singh, looking over his shoulder. Tyler had disappeared from view. Perhaps he’d decided to ditch the visit to the crematorium.

  “Who was that man anyway?”

  “Ashu’s boss.”

  “Do you suspect him?” she asked sotto voce.

  “Not just him,” said Singh ruefully, wishing his turban didn’t feel so tight. It was always a sign that he was developing a headache. No wonder, with all these potential killers in one room.

  “What about that girl?” he asked, squeezing the back of his neck with thumb and index finger, trying to release the tension.

  “What girl?”

  “The one you were just speaking to.”

  “Farzana – Ashu’s friend. Ashu asked her to come to Marine Drive.”

  “Yes, you told me.” Singh was impatient now. He wanted progress, not to re-hash old stories.
“Did she have anything to add?”

  Mrs. Singh tugged at her dupatta. “Just saying hello.”

  Singh looked around and saw Farzana leave the room with Ranjit in tow. It reminded him that he hadn’t asked the younger brother whether he’d known about Sameer. Ranjit’s blanket denial might not be so effective now that Singh had a name. He hurried after them like a determined street vendor.

  As he rounded a corner, he heard Ranjit’s voice and slowed down.

  “You can’t tell. Please!”

  “It doesn’t seem right, keeping things from the police.” The girl was doubtful, uncertain.

  “He’s not really the police – just some fat guy my grandfather hired.” Singh grimaced. Was everyone in this family saying unpleasant things about him behind his back?

  “Why don’t you want anyone to know?”

  “If Tara Baba found out that I’d kept this from him – well, you know what he’s like.”

  Singh picked up the hint of a sigh from Farzana – as if she was willing to accept his explanation but didn’t like it. “I guess Ashu wouldn’t want me to get you into trouble,” she said. “She always did her best to protect you from Tara Baba.”

  “Thank you, Farzana. It means a lot to me.”

  “What did Ashu say to you, anyway?” asked Farzana.

  “That she was going through with the marriage…that it was the right thing to do.”

  “I just don’t understand.” There was a note of profound pain in Farzana’s voice.

  “When I saw her, she was fine. Not happy, of course. But not…suicidal. Typical Ashu really – stubborn and determined.”

  There was a long silence and Singh wondered for a moment if they had left.

  “I don’t think she did it,” said Farzana, at last. “Killed herself, I mean. Not her of all people.”

  “Do you realise what you’re saying? If she didn’t do it…” Ranjit’s voice trailed off.

  “I think someone murdered her.”

  Whether she was going to identify any likely suspects was never to be known as Singh suddenly heard a cackle of voices behind him. Unwilling to be caught eavesdropping, he opened the nearest door and slipped in. It was a small, cluttered room with bright handloom bedspreads and towers of books. It smelt faintly of lavender. He guessed it had been Ashu’s. He waited for the footsteps to pass and then scurried around the corner, determined to question the co-conspirators. Only Farzana was still there. She sat on a stool in the kitchen and sipped a glass of water, her expression despondent.

  “Well then, young lady, I think it’s time you and I had a chat.”

  He wasn’t entirely surprised when the glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor.

  ♦

  “Any developments?” asked Tanvir.

  The two men had made their way through the throng of mourners and past the closed coffin to Tanvir’s spartan room.

  The Canadian shut the door carefully, pausing to listen for the click. He shook his head. “Everything is ready. Nothing to do except wait.” He clenched and unclenched his fist. “The hardest part.”

  “It doesn’t bother me – I’ve been waiting a long time. You must learn patience.”

  Jaswant nodded and his expression was respectful. “What about your grandfather?” he asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Surely he must feel the same way you do? Are you sure you don’t want to rope him in?”

  Tanvir shrugged, an elegant gesture. “He makes the right noises – but I don’t believe he has the courage to see something like this through.”

  “He looks devastated about your sister.”

  “Exactly – it is just as well that he has no part to play. He’s a wreck right now.”

  “And you? Ashu was your sister, after all.”

  Tanvir looked discomfited for a moment. “I’m all right.”

  Jaswant gripped the other man by the shoulders with two large hands. “Are you quite sure? There is no room for error. No room for personal tragedy. You know as well as I do that our mission can only succeed if we have one hundred per cent commitment.”

  Tanvir took a step back and Jaswant’s hands fell to his sides. “I’m all right, I told you. We have nothing to do except wait for the judgment.”

  ♦

  “So what did you find out?” Mrs. Singh spoke in a penetrating whisper.

  “Ranjit,” said Singh. “Farzana said that when she arrived at Marine Drive to meet Ashu, she was just in time to see her drive off in a car. With Ranjit.”

  “Are we talking about the same person – the younger brother? Surely, she means Tanvir – or Kirpal?”

  “She’s quite sure.”

  “Why didn’t Farzana say anything earlier?”

  “She was trying to protect him – for Ashu’s sake. I heard him beg her to keep quiet about it.”

  “Then why did she tell you?”

  “I’m quite persuasive,” said Singh, his face forbidding. “And,” he amended, “she was willing to be persuaded.”

  “I heard from Harjeet that Farzana is quite keen on Ranjit. But her family is not interested,” said Mrs. Singh.

  “Are we still talking about the same person? Who could be keen on Ranjit? He looks like a stick with a beehive on the end!”

  “Women are not so shallow,” was the tart response.

  Singh leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He needed to think. For a death that might yet turn out to be suicide, there was no shortage of murder suspects. But Ranjit had not figured high on the list. Indeed, had not appeared on the list at all. He tried to remember his encounters with the young man: the worried fellow at his mother’s elbow trying to keep the Singhs out when they had first arrived at the wedding house; the tearful man-child at the Taj, devastated by the loss of his sister. Neither manifestation had seemed out of character or suspicious. He’d not seemed that concerned about his sister’s disappearance at first, worried about her reputation rather than her safety. But his grief had been genuine when the body was identified. Singh knew that this was not conclusive of innocence. Quite often the murderer was the loudest mourner at the funeral of the victim, guilt and anger adding to the emotional cauldron.

  Looking around, he spotted Ranjit sitting next to his mother, his face a mask of sadness. There was no mistaking the honesty of the emotion. It was all there in the sallow face; the new lines, the hollow eyes. But Ranjit had withheld crucial information. He knew quite well that Singh, let alone Tara and the rest of the family, would have wanted to know that he’d seen Ashu, been with her, the afternoon of her death. Try as he might, Singh could not find a single explanation for his reticence except a guilty conscience.

  “Stop doing that,” whispered his wife.

  “Doing what?”

  “Staring at you-know-who!”

  “Ranjit?”

  “Yes. Everyone will think he did it.”

  “Maybe he did do it,” responded Singh.

  “Can’t be,” was the response.

  “Why not?”

  “Mother says very gentle boy. Writes poetry.” She shuddered. For a woman who believed that all young Sikh men should pursue gainful employment and marriage with equal vigour, poetry was harder for her to understand than murder.

  “For what would he do it anyway?”

  “I don’t know.” Surely not an honour killing by the young beanpole? There’d been no evidence that he shared the prejudices of his grandfather and brother. Wasn’t he the quiet rebel who watched Bollywood movies with his sister and believed in happy endings?

  “Why would he lie about seeing her?” he asked, giving himself a mental kicking for relying on his wife. Where would he turn next? A psychic?

  “Something to hide. But maybe not murder.”

  “Something to hide but maybe not murder?” That about summed it up. And the only way he could find out was by cornering the young fool and beating it out of him – verbally of course. He stepped forward and his wife grabbed him b
y the arm.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “Not now,” she hissed and Singh realised that she was right. The cortege was about to leave the house. This was probably not the moment to confront Ranjit Singh about the death of his sister and the lies he had told.

  Thirteen

  Singh slipped out of the apartment and found a convenient but poorly lit stairwell around the corner from the heavy front door. The air was stale and he could smell piss but his need was urgent and not so easily thwarted. The inspector carefully extricated a packet from his trouser pocket, tapped one slim cigarette into his palm, slipped it between his thin upper lip and full lower lip, lit it with a cheap plastic lighter and inhaled deeply. The tobacco hit his lungs and he sighed with relief. The absence of cigarettes was affecting his investigative skills, he decided, crossing his eyes to admire the glowing orange tip of his cigarette. The usual cloud of smoke around his head, by obscuring his vision and clogging his nostrils, allowed him to turn his thoughts inwards and focus on the evidence. In its absence, he was just flailing around like a novice swimmer in the deep end.

  Although, the crux of the matter was that he’d need more than a single cigarette to work his way through this particular thicket of facts, truths, half-truths and lies. And there was still the very real possibility that a pregnant Ashu had killed herself. Singh scowled. Even if it was suicide, one of his suspects had probably driven her to it. But he’d get away scot free unless he’d been holding the match. The law was not a morality play.

  Singh’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He’d turned off the ring tone and now it felt as if he had a live lizard in his pocket. He extricated it gingerly and looked at the long Indian number with some puzzlement. He removed the cigarette from his mouth, tapped the ash onto the ground and held the small device to his ear with a beefy hand.

  “Singh,” he said abruptly.

  “ACP Patel here.”

  What other bad news did the fellow have?

  “Very glad to see that you are still with us in Mumbai, Inspector Singh.”

  “Can’t drag myself away.”

  “Very good, very good.” Sarcasm was obviously wasted on ACP Patel.

  “I have some information that I think you might be very pleased and interested in knowing.”