A Curious Indian Cadaver

by Shamini Flint

  Could he afford to ignore the possibility that the fat inspector was right? Patel sighed. He’d always hankered after an early retirement. It looked like he was going to get his wish. “What do you suggest I do?” he asked.

  “Did you put a tail on Jaswant?”

  “Yes – as you suggested. I haven’t even heard squeak of a mouse from him.”

  “Call him – tell him to arrest the Canadian. We have to stop him before it’s too late. And then ask Tanvir Singh what the hell he thinks he’s doing. I’m on my way back.”

  Patel hung up abruptly and pressed buttons with fingers that were stiff with shock. There was no answer from the young man who was supposed to be shadowing Jaswant Singh. He tried again and then again and finally heard a faint voice issue a greeting.

  “Where is Jaswant?”

  “Lost him, saar.”

  “What do you mean, lost him?”

  “Am following him to Haji Ali mosque. He is standing there for long time, just looking at it. Like a tourist,” he added helpfully. “I thought he was going to visit. But then suddenly he jumped in taxi. By the time I am getting scooter, he is disappeared.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “About forty-five minutes ago, saar.”

  Patel pressed a finger and thumb to his temples and terminated the call abruptly. They had lost the scent. And there was no way of picking up the trail of a single man in the teeming millions of Mumbai. Jaswant was on the loose – and his brief stop at the Haji Ali mosque had been instructive – and chilling.

  The policeman’s mouth thinned into a firm line. Tanvir might know something – and if that was the case, he would find a way of extracting it, heir to a business empire or otherwise. He marched back into the living room and yanked Tanvir to his feet by the collar of his shirt. This was no time for half measures.

  “Where is Jaswant?”

  “No idea,” replied Tanvir. “Sight-seeing probably.”

  “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is it revenge for your father? Is that it?”

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

  Aunty Harjeet, she of the wandering eye and protective instincts, stormed over. “Have you gone mad?” she demanded. The rest of the occupants were watching the scene – unable to fathom this turn of events.

  “We know what you and Jaswant are planning!” shouted Patel, spittle falling like a fine rain on the other man’s face. He couldn’t believe that his beloved Mumbai was on the verge of another atrocity. Hadn’t the people suffered enough?

  “Then you don’t need my help,” replied Tanvir.

  “What’s the target?”

  There was no response.

  “What’s the target?”

  Again, he was met with silence. Patel slapped Tanvir across the mouth with the back of his hand. The grandson stumbled backwards but did not fall. He stuck out a tongue and ran it along his split lip.

  “We will all taste blood tonight,” he whispered.

  Patel turned to Jesvinder. “Talk to him,” he begged. “He and his confederates are planning a terrorist attack in Mumbai. They’re going to blow up a mosque. Trigger reprisals by Hindus. There will be counter-attacks. The city will burn.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she whispered. She turned to her son. “Tanvir?” she asked, voice shrouded in fear.

  He shrugged, the careless gesture of a man who had long ago made up his mind. “These people killed Pita, Mata. Don’t you want them punished?”

  “The men who killed him, my son. Not innocents.”

  “There are no innocents, Mata. Only those who fight and those who stand and watch.” He drew himself straight and Patel saw the fanatical glint in his eye for the first time. “I have decided to fight.”

  “Fight?” Sameer had crossed the room in two strides and had Tanvir against a wall in a twinkling. “You’re just a coward and a murderer who gets others to do his dirty work for him.”

  Tanvir’s face took on a faraway look as if he was lost in memory. “Khoon ka badla khoon se lenge.” He repeated, “Khoon ka badla khoon se lenge,” like a mantra.

  Patel’s phone beeped and saved him making the decision of whether to intervene or let Sameer try and extricate some information out of Tanvir. He looked down at the message from a colleague at headquarters. He felt his chest cage constrict. Two words – ‘Watch TV’.

  Patel scurried over to the corner and switched on the television, ignoring the bemused expressions on the faces of his suspects.

  A familiar sight – Mumbai from the air – filled the screen. It was a wide-angle shot from a helicopter. And then the focus zoomed in on a scene of carnage; the all too familiar plumes of smoke, streaks of blood on the ground and walls and piles of slippers collected by bystanders after the dead and injured had been rushed to hospital.

  The reporter at the scene appeared. “Eyewitnesses are describing black and yellow non-AC cab which stopped on the road, blocking the traffic that usually streams past the Gol Mosque in Mumbai – the mosque in the middle of the road – on both sides. A rucksack was thrown out of the back window. The taxi drove away just as massive fireball erupted. It engulfed all cars around as well as building. Some witnesses claiming that taxi was caught up in explosion as well. Experts say that only a powerful explosive – like C4 – could have caused so much damage.” The announcer took a deep breath, glanced over his shoulder as if still unable to believe his eyes and continued, “Speculation is that the explosives were part of the supply stolen from army depot earlier this month. Leaders have urged Mumbai residents not to draw hasty conclusions.”

  The telecast was interrupted to show an interview with a Moslem community leader who was incandescent with rage. “This is how Hindu majority has greeted decision of courts in Jama Masjid matter – with wickedness. We will show them the wrath of Allah for this desecration.”

  The next shot was of the Chief Minister of Maharashtra begging people not to indulge in any reprisal activity until investigators had got to the root of matters.

  When Patel turned away from the television, he was just in time to see the smile of satisfaction on Tanvir’s face.

  “I have avenged blood with blood.”

  ♦

  “We still have a murder to solve,” said Singh, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. It had been an intense few hours. Tanvir Singh had been taken away and his room was being worked over by bomb disposal units and counter-terrorism agents. Singh’s demands that he be allowed to speak to the heir about Tara Baba’s death had been overruled. The terrorist attack took priority. Of Jaswant Singh, there was no sign. The inspector suspected that he had indeed been caught up in the blast. Certainly, pieces of at least one Fiat taxi had been found at the site. There did not appear to be any doubt that the two men had been involved in a plot to stir up trouble after the Jama mosque judgment and persuade the Hindu and Moslem communities to turn on each other. Bomb residue had been detected on Tanvir’s hands – but not, as Singh pointed out to Patel, any trace of the old man’s blood.

  “Much better for all of us if Tanvir is killing Tara Singh,” said the assistant commissioner.

  “Yes,” agreed Singh. “Unfortunately wishful thinking is not the same thing as evidence.”

  “You said that you had something to tell me that was very important?” asked Patel, alluding to Singh’s opening remark when he had burst back into the apartment with Mahesh, only for their murder hunt to be overtaken by events.

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  To tell or not to tell, that was the question? At the last minute, he’d left Ashu behind at the slum. It was cruel to put Jesvinder through a few more hours of hell, compounded now by the arrest of her oldest son. But he had no choice unless he was to ignore the body in the basement carpark. Besides, a picture was starting to develop in the darkroom that was his mind, a series of stills punctuating the narrative at regular intervals, beginning with the photograph on
the mantelpiece. Unfortunately, it was all conjecture, unaccompanied by proof. Which meant he needed the girl as bait, an inducement to honesty. Singh eyed the other policeman thoughtfully. He’d trust Patel with his life, but not necessarily with a secret. And if word got out that Ashu was alive – he’d lose all his leverage and a murder might yet go unsolved. Besides, what if Patel objected to Singh’s tactics? After all, he was hamstrung by officialdom – unlike Singh who was, for once, a free agent. Patel’s phone rang and pre-empted any need for immediate revelations. He held up a finger to silence the impatient inspector.

  At last he hung up and turned to Singh. “Tyler Junior,” he said. “We’ve got him.”

  “Where?”

  “At the airport – trying to get a flight out.”

  “Good work,” said Singh. “Can we see him?”

  “They’re bringing him to the station.”

  “All right. Let’s go.” He paused and then continued, “I need you to send a police car to the slum to pick someone up for me.”

  “Who?”

  “We’ll let that be a surprise, shall we?”

  “Very well, Inspector Singh, I shall be arranging it right this minute on the button.”

  “Well then, let’s get everyone together in a couple of hours,” said Singh, slapping his counterpart on the back. “It won’t hurt to let them cool their heels for a while longer.”

  ♦

  “So – what do you have to say for yourself?”

  All the fight had gone out of the American. He was hunched in a small chair and his hair and clothes were dishevelled. Singh wondered if he’d been roughed up. He caught Patel’s eye and guessed that he was wondering the same thing.

  “We know about the mercury poisoning,” stated Singh.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” said Tyler, not meeting their eyes.

  “It wasn’t your fault that the factory under your supervision poisoned hundreds of people?” Singh took the picture of the baby with the gnarled hand and flung it on the small table between them. Tyler glanced up, saw the image and flinched.

  “I didn’t know,” he insisted. “I swear it!”

  “That’s why you were at the airport? Fancied a holiday in the sun?”

  “I meant I just found out – I knew the Indians would be looking for a scapegoat so I legged it. You’d have done the same.”

  “I wouldn’t have poisoned an entire slum,” retorted the fat man.

  “What do you mean you just found out?” asked Patel.

  “Last night I went in to do some research – at the factory. I was worried about the outbreak at the slum. Discovered the mercury.” Tyler looked up at Singh. His eyes were bloodshot, fine lines like country roads on a map. “You have to believe me!”

  “I don’t because I know you’re lying.”

  “It’s the truth, I swear it.”

  “Ashu Kaur told you about her suspicions almost a week ago. You didn’t deny it. Instead you threatened her.” As Tyler opened his mouth, gulping for air like a fish on land, Singh continued, “And don’t bother to pretend otherwise – you were overheard.” Let him think it was Mrs. Bannerjee. This was no time to let slip that the other participant to the conversation was alive and well.

  The American buried his face in his hands.

  Singh had to lean forward to hear Tyler’s next words.

  “I didn’t have a choice. I swear – I didn’t have a choice.”

  “What do you mean?” Again, it was Patel, determined to have his say.

  “He threatened me – told me that I would only leave India in a bodybag if I said anything…”

  Singh nodded his large head. It made sense. A man as powerful as Tara Singh – his threats would have carried weight with the American. In a perfect world, Tyler Junior would have stood up to his boss and elected to do the right thing. But India was not a microcosm of a perfect world.

  “We will need a statement,” said Patel, suddenly the officious policeman.

  “Don’t you see – I can’t go on the record. He’ll kill me.” Tyler Junior was almost as grey as the grimy walls behind him. Singh noted that his hands were balled into fists, knuckles bloodless with fear. He also noted the present tense. Had Tyler Junior killed Tara Singh? He had good reason. But Singh didn’t think it was him. Tyler’s solution had been to run – not murder. And now that he’d been caught, he was far too terrified to be watching his tenses.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much,” said Singh. “Tara Singh isn’t in a position to hurt anyone any more.”

  ♦

  Two hours later, ‘on the button’ as Patel might have said, the unhappy cast of characters was assembled in the living room once more. They stood or sat as was their inclination, hardly anyone bothering to look at Singh. Sameer Khan, Kirpal, Jesvinder, Ranjit and finally, Mahesh, grinning from ear to ear. His wife was present too but Singh doubted he’d be able to pin the murder on her. Perhaps one day, when he was the corpse.

  Who was missing? Tara Singh, victim; Tyler Junior, demanding to see someone from the consulate; Tanvir Singh, under arrest for other crimes and Ashu Kaur, presumed dead by some of those present, excepting Sameer and Mahesh, but alive if not quite well after the stress of playing dead the last few days.

  “Usually,” began Singh conversationally, “when I have two related murders – of members of the same family, for instance – I assume that the killer is one and the same person.”

  He had their attention. “Despite what you see on TV, it’s not that easy to kill someone – not in person, after looking at them in the eyes, not if you know them – maybe even love them. And so it makes sense to assume a single killer rather than a statistically unlikely collection of murderers.”

  “But what motive do any of us have to kill either of them?” Kirpal was pleading for understanding. “And,” he added, “Ashu might have committed suicide. You don’t know for sure that she didn’t.”

  “Actually, I do,” said Singh, a trifle smugly.

  “But why?” whispered Jesvinder. “Why would anyone do this to our family?”

  “That’s the question,” agreed Singh. “Taking you in turn, it’s easy to find a motive for one murder, but not both.” He glanced around the room, full pink lower lip thrust out in a thoughtful pout. “Let’s take Ashu’s death, assuming for now that it was murder.”

  He glanced at Sameer who was wearing a purposely fixed expression as if defying anyone to read the truth on his face.

  “Sameer and Kirpal,” continued Singh, “might both have killed Ashu in a jealous – of each other – rage, but then why kill Tara Singh?”

  Kirpal, who had opened his mouth to protest indignantly, changed his mind.

  “In fact, whatever Ashu did, I doubt that Kirpal would have slain the golden goose.”

  The policeman was pleased to see that the MBA looked conflicted, pleased to be exonerated of murder but unhappy that it was on the basis of his greed.

  “Jesvinder” – he smiled a little sadly – “is, in my professional opinion, unlikely to have been involved in either murder. Ranjit? Well, he might have killed his sister in anger when he found her on Marine Drive with her Moslem boyfriend – an honour killing.” The policeman put up a heavy hand to prevent any interruption. “But we know that he was a young romantic who actually encouraged her to elope with Sameer.”

  “Tanvir?” suggested Mrs. Singh. The inspector nodded in her direction to acknowledge the suggestion. Like Patel, she was pushing this most convenient solution. They were all keen to chalk up a couple more to the mass murderer if it got them off the hook.

  “Yes, it is possible to assume that someone with his inclinations would not have stood by and watched his sister carry on with a Moslem man. But we know now that he had more important matters on his mind.”

  “What about Tyler?” asked Patel.

  “To cover up what was happening at the factory?” Singh’s eyebrows were raised high. “Surely he would have depended on Tara Singh to keep his granddaugh
ter quiet rather than adopt such a desperate measure as murder?”

  “But that’s everyone,” said Mrs. Singh, her shoulders slumped with disappointment.

  “Except Tara,” interjected Ranjit. There was spittle on his chin and he looked exhausted but he was still prepared to fight his corner. “You’re forgetting that my grandfather killed my sister to protect his precious reputation.”

  “Well, he didn’t know about Sameer so he had no reason to kill her as a matter of so-called honour.”

  “Not that! Don’t you see – because she was going to spill the beans about the slum poisoning.”

  “But then why is Tara Baba dead?” Harjeet barked the question at him as if she was questioning a fishmonger’s prices at the market.

  “A very good question,” said Singh. “And one that suggests that he did not kill Ashu to cover up wrongdoing at the factory.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Ranjit desperately. “I told you – she saw Tyler. He warned her away. She went to confront Tara Baba and died after that. He must have done it!”

  “Unfortunately, it turns out that Tara Singh was in the dark about the poisonous leaks.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  Singh looked at the young man a little sadly. If things turned out the way he suspected, the young romantic was in for a nasty shock.

  “Tyler told us.” It was Patel who answered the question. “Tyler Junior said that Tara Baba didn’t know…”

  “But that’s not right,” insisted Ranjit. “Tyler told Ashu that Tara Baba knew.”

  “He was lying,” was the curt response from Patel.

  Singh turned back to Ranjit. “Tyler told Tanvir about the outbreak at the slum. Tanvir warned him to keep quiet about it. And if anyone came sniffing around, to make sure the buck stopped with Tara.”

  The inspector didn’t bother to describe Tyler’s sarcastic laughter when he realised the policemen thought it was Tara he feared. Only their assurance that Tanvir had more important things to worry about than his inheritance and a threat from Patel to incarcerate Tyler with the dregs of Mumbai prison life had persuaded him to tell the truth. It was guesswork for the present – there was a long queue of people waiting to question Tanvir Singh – but Singh was fairly certain that Tanvir had arranged for mercury to be added to the skin-whitening cream, determined to make the product even more successful and indifferent to the risk to others.