A Curious Indian Cadaver

by Shamini Flint

  “Not so much – but better to be very safe than extremely sorry. If everything is all right, I am thinking someone higher up will take over case of Tara Singh soon. He is very important entrepreneur, you know?”

  “I know,” said Singh amicably. If he hadn’t known, he would by now, the number of times Patel had reminded him that morning. The Indian policeman didn’t seem to mind his potential demotion and Singh couldn’t blame him. This was one of those high-profile cases which were a nightmare to the investigating cops with everyone – politicians, press and family – demanding answers but providing minimal cooperation.

  “What sort of security operation are you mounting for judgment?”

  “The usual – cordon off High Court.”

  Singh nodded. The glorious old building that housed the courts and the sweaty lawyers in their colonial-era regalia was an obvious target.

  “Also increased police presence at flash points, road blocks, surveillance of known trouble-makers, ban on mass text messaging,” continued Patel.

  “Text messaging?”

  “That is main way that trouble-makers are getting flash mobs together for riots,” explained Patel.

  Singh chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully. Technology had a lot to answer for. He gave himself a mental shake. Soon he would be longing for the ‘good ol’ days’, a blissful time when men were men, women were in the kitchen and children showed their elders respect. It did beg the question though – how had the more tiresome elements of society begun riots before the era of mobile phones – carrier pigeons?

  “Also, meetings between police and community leaders. Army on standby. Schools closed also.”

  “Sounds like preparation for war,” remarked Singh, yet again forced to contemplate the difference between Singapore policing’s idea of a tough day at the office, an outbreak of jaywalking perhaps, and the Indian equivalent.

  “Sometimes it is exactly like war,” said Patel in a quiet voice and Singh had a sudden glimpse into the abyss.

  When they reached the apartment there were two people in the living room. His wife and the MBA, Kirpal Singh. From his wife’s expression, which would have curdled milk, he guessed that there had been a frigid silence between them rather than a conversational outpouring. Singh sat down and realised that his shirt buttons were on the verge of popping. His rich Indian diet had expanded his circumference, like a party balloon blown to maximum. The two occupants looked at him with an air of expectancy. He mentally agreed with his wife’s earlier assessment of the MBA’s chin. Kirpal would soon have found that he didn’t wear the churidar in any household involving Ashu.

  Patel busied himself closing doors and then sat down next to Singh. Apparently, the living room was going to double as their interview venue.

  “Inspector Singh, perhaps you can be introducing me?”

  “This is my wife and the other is Kirpal Singh who was to have married Ashu Kaur today.”

  The commissioner attempted to adopt a suitable expression for each introduction. With the former, he grinned and waggled his head to express delight at the privilege of meeting Inspector Singh’s wife. With the latter, his face took on a lugubrious quality and he said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Is it true that Tara Baba is dead?” The tone was clipped and to the point. Kirpal wasn’t there for commiserations.

  “Yes, I am very sorry to say it is true.”

  “That is very bad news,” said Mrs. Singh.

  “Very bad and very sad news,” said Patel. “Will you tell us what happened last night after the cremation?” he continued.

  “We were there before sunset – at the cremation ghat. The usual prayers were read. Tanvir lit the flame as the oldest brother.”

  “Did you head back here right away?” Singh was already butting in.

  “No, Tara Baba wanted us at the gurdwara for a few more prayers.”

  “And then?”

  “People came back here in dribs and drabs.”

  “How?”

  “I took an AC cab.” Kirpal glared at Singh. “What are all these questions about?”

  “Answer them and you might find out eventually.”

  “You were not driving?” interposed Patel.

  “No, it was very late by then and I was tired. I came up here, sat with the family for a while and then Tanvir offered me a shower and a bed for the night which I accepted.”

  “Were you surprised when Tara Singh didn’t turn up?”

  “We all were. I think Tanvir tried to call him but there was no answer on his mobile.”

  Mrs. Singh nodded to signal her corroboration of this part of the story.

  “In the end, everyone assumed that he’d gone home to bed,” continued Kirpal. “That it had just been too much for him.” He added as an afterthought, “And I guess it was too much for him.”

  “Were you all together when you got back here?” continued Singh.

  “I suppose so – there were a lot of comings and goings. Jesvinder Mata had a nap, I think. Tanvir was on the phone.”

  “In other words, if someone had been absent for half an hour, no one would have been the wiser?”

  “No,” agreed Kirpal. “I wouldn’t have noticed. Most people were lost in their own thoughts. We’d just come back from a cremation, after all.”

  “Of your fiancée,” remarked Singh.

  He was greeted with a pained look. “You don’t have to remind me.”

  “I heard Tara Singh was going to make you boss of that chemical factory once Tyler Junior retired,” continued Singh.

  He noticed that Patel was staring at him, presumably impressed by his intimate knowledge of the family. It was true that he’d picked up a lot of information in just a few days – but it hadn’t rendered Ashu’s death less inexplicable. And now there was another corpse. Were two murders in the same family the equivalent of lightning striking twice? Surely one family was unlikely to encompass a multitude of murderers or a multitude of enemies. Did that mean that Ashu had killed herself after all? Or was there a single murderer with some sort of grudge against the family? Singh wished that someone would stop the merry-go-round in his mind so he could clamber off.

  “Yes, that was his plan,” said Kirpal. “He was a very generous benefactor. In fact, he intended to go ahead with it despite Ashu’s death.”

  “Looks like you’ll need to start job hunting.”

  Patel, who was clearly not of the school of investigation that required gratuitous antagonism towards suspects, cleared his throat loudly to interrupt Singh. “Thank you, that will be all.”

  Kirpal didn’t need any further encouragement. He rose to his feet quickly and asked, “Can I go home?”

  “Stick around for a bit longer,” ordered Singh and Patel nodded his agreement.

  “Who is next?” asked Patel as Kirpal disappeared out of the room.

  “Ranjit,” said Singh. “I would very much like to have a chat with young Ranjit Singh.”

  The assistant commissioner poked his head round the door and issued a curt command.

  Singh looked down at the coffee table and noticed that an album had been placed on it. He flipped it open and saw that it was a record of Ashu, from black and white photos of a chubby-legged toddler, through posed studio photos of a serious-looking teenager. There was a blown-up picture of Ashu and the MBA standing side by side but not touching. Shortly after their official engagement, guessed Singh. The album must have been put out for mourners to peruse and remember. He turned the page and found the most recent shots, colour photos of the choora ceremony. The inspector couldn’t help but smile – it was impossible not to warm to the long-suffering expression on Ashu’s face as her relatives congregated around her. She’d obviously found family occasions as tedious as he did.

  The rest of the album was empty. Singh stared down at the empty clear-plastic slots and felt a profound sense of loss. These pages would remain forever empty now. No happy family, no children. Was that a bit sexist? No Nobel
Prize for Chemistry, he amended.

  A few moments later, Ranjit crept in like the ghost of Divalis past.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Sit down,” instructed Singh.

  Ranjit complied with the absent-minded air of one who was used to being told what to do. Unlike the MBA, he didn’t ask for confirmation that Tara was dead. But that, decided Singh, wasn’t significant – not when the death was on the newswires.

  “Why didn’t you tell us about Ashu?”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “You’ve been lying to me since the beginning.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You saw her that afternoon – the day she disappeared – you picked her up in the car.”

  The dilated irises would have been evidence enough that there were secrets here. “Well?”

  “I don’t…I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Liar!” The single word cracked like a whip and Ranjit jerked away as if he’d been hit.

  “Better if you explain,” interjected Patel and Singh had to work hard not to scowl at the man. He was building the pressure on this young man but Patel was functioning like an escape valve.

  “Nothing to explain,” snapped Singh. “He saw his sister with Sameer Khan, realised it was a romantic assignation and killed her in some bizarre attempt to redeem the family honour.” He watched Ranjit carefully, noting the Adam’s apple bobbing about like a boat on stormy seas. The boy was going to choke on his own saliva. He added pointedly, “We have a witness.”

  “I would never hurt Ashu.”

  “Did you hope to get into your grandfather’s good books? Show him that you too understood family pride?”

  “You think I give a damn about the old man and his opinions?”

  “Did you know about Sameer?” asked Patel.

  “No. I wondered once or twice – just from things that Ashu let slip – whether she was entirely happy about the arranged marriage.”

  “But you did see her that day?”

  Ranjit hesitated and then nodded.

  “What did she say when you picked her up?”

  “That she was in love with Sameer – but that she’d decided to go through with the marriage to Kirpal.”

  “Why?”

  “To avoid the scandal – for the family’s sake but especially my mother and grandfather. She met Sameer after she’d agreed to marry Kirpal, you see. And, of course, he was a Moslem.”

  “Did you agree with her decision?” asked Singh.

  “I said that she should run away with Sameer. I thought…I know it sounds corny…I thought love was more important than saving Tara Baba’s face.”

  He stood up suddenly and began pacing. This was not the angry prowl adopted so frequently by Sameer but the desperate strides of a tethered beast. “That’s why I didn’t believe she’d come to any harm, you see? I thought she must have taken my advice!”

  Singh was at his most sarcastic. “You’re trying to tell us that when you left her she was alive and well and when she disappeared you thought she’d headed for the hills with the love of her life.”

  Ranjit met his eyes. “Exactly,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you tell us you saw her that day?”

  “When I thought she had run away – I didn’t want to point Tara Baba in the right direction…”

  “And later?”

  “And later – I was afraid.”

  “Of what are you afraid?” asked Patel.

  “I knew everyone would be so angry that I hadn’t mentioned it before. Tara Baba…” He trailed off and stared at the floor between his bony knees.

  Singh felt like shaking the young fellow until his teeth rattled. He believed him though. This was a kid more afraid of his grandfather than of being accused of murder. Maybe he was innocent of everything except cowardice.

  “Right – so if you didn’t kill her – who do you think did?”

  The hands were twisted together in a tight knot. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe is suicide?” said Patel in an optimistic tone which was rewarded with three matching glares from the other occupants of the room.

  “Where did she go after you picked her up?” asked Singh. He was even more puzzled now. “Surely you brought her back here?”

  A loud thumping on the front door interrupted any answer that Ranjit was about to provide.

  Jesvinder hurried in with Tanvir and Kirpal.

  “Who’s that? What’s going on?” demanded the heir. He looked worried and it was no wonder. The assault on the front door suggested that the Grim Reaper had arrived for another member of the clan.

  “You appear to have a visitor,” said Singh. He was interested to see that all the suspects were tired – and nervous. Maybe it was the unexpected cacophony in a house that had been as hushed as a tomb. Ranjit was shaking with fright. He’d lost weight as well in just a few short days and looked like a human lollipop. Events had taken their toll.

  “Isn’t someone going to answer the door?”

  “I’ll get it,” said Tanvir. “It’ll probably turn out to be a carpet salesman.”

  “Very keen on a sale, I guess,” said Singh.

  “I have policeman at door,” said Patel.

  Whether the words were a warning or a reassurance, Singh wasn’t sure. The inhabitants seemed to take it as the latter because they all moved as one to the entrance. The door was flung wide open by Tanvir. His hand remained on the door handle, his body squared to prevent ingress.

  Singh, peering over his shoulder, was taken aback to see Sameer Khan. The Moslem man put a hand on Tanvir’s chest and unceremoniously shoved him into the apartment. Either because the attack was unexpected, or because he was a better talker than fighter, Tanvir stumbled backwards. Sameer strode into the room and looked around, taking in everyone’s presence, including that of the uniformed Patel. To the inspector’s amazement, a small boy trailed in after Sameer. He was wearing a bright orange shirt and looked wan except for his lips that were a bright pink as if he’d raided his sister’s makeup box for a fancy-dress party.

  “Mahesh?” asked Singh.

  The boy saw the fat man and smiled in recognition but there was a quiver to his bottom lip that suggested his heart wasn’t in it.

  Tanvir’s voice was raised and angry. “How dare you come here? What the hell do you want?”

  “Your grandfather,” retorted Sameer. “I need to speak to Tara Singh.”

  Singh noted that he was poised on the balls of his feet, ready for a fight.

  “Who is this?” asked Jesvinder. A woman who had lost her daughter and father-in-law in the same week did not have the strength for the unexpected.

  Seeing her and guessing who she must be, Sameer said in a stricken voice, “I’m a friend of Ashu’s.”

  “Friend?” Tanvir spat the word out as if it was a fish bone that had been lodged in his throat.

  “What’s the matter, Tanvir? Why are you so angry?”

  “This bastard brought dishonour to our family.”

  “What do you mean…?”

  “I was in love with your daughter,” said Sameer. “I wanted to marry her.”

  Singh was interested to note that Kirpal was so pale his beard and moustache looked like they’d been slapped on with black paint. Singh almost felt sorry for him. He’d lost a lot this week – his bride, his dowry and his pride.

  Kirpal whirled around to confront Tanvir. “You knew about this fellow? But you were going to let me go through with the marriage?”

  “She was prepared to forget about him and marry you.”

  “How do you know that?” interrupted Singh.

  “It was what I advised when she asked me – and she agreed.” He turned his attention to Kirpal. “It meant nothing.”

  “It meant everything!” Sameer’s voice was low and throbbing with passion. Great, thought Singh. Heathcliff’s back. Or maybe this time it was Romeo. Ei
ther way, the farce was threatening to dominate the play – and that wasn’t acceptable in light of the growing pile of corpses.

  “The family would never have allowed Ashu to marry you,” growled Tanvir.

  “Yes, yes,” said Singh testily. “We’ve heard all this before. I want to know what Sameer is doing here now?”

  “I want to see Tara Singh. I want him to understand what he’s done.”

  “What has he done?” Singh hoped that none of the others would butt in and reveal that Tara Singh was lying dead on the basement carpark floor.

  Sameer stepped back, put his arm around Mahesh and ushered him forward.

  “Who is this boy?” asked Tanvir, his tone hostile.

  “He lives in the slum next to the chemical factory.” It was Singh who answered.

  “Yes, and he’s not well,” said Sameer.

  “I have no idea what you’re doing here, what you’re talking about or why you’ve brought a slum child to my home but I want you all out.”

  Singh walked over to Tanvir until his stomach was almost touching the other man’s. “You’re beginning to bore me, Tanvir. Your sister was investigating an outbreak of poisoning at the slum. I suggest that you be quiet or I’ll have Patel here arrest you and let you cool your heels in a prison cell for a couple of days.”

  Tanvir subsided suddenly. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Singh decided to ignore the reason for this unlikely capitulation. He bent down until he was eye-level with the boy. “What’s up with you, Mahesh?” He liked this kid with the air of sartorial elegance, the slicked-back hair and feisty attitude.

  “My hands and legs are not so steady any more. Started yesterday.”

  And his voice was slurring as well, realised Singh. The child had been fine just a couple of days ago. Was this the dreaded illness that Ashu had been recording? Suddenly, it had a human face. A thin young face that looked terrified.

  “I know what’s causing it,” said Sameer triumphantly, pushing his hair back from the high intelligent forehead.

  Singh turned to him. This then was the denouement. “Well, spit it out!”

  “Mercury.”

  “Mercury?” Singh considered the quicksilver liquid that shone like polished metal and pooled like blood. “Are you sure?”