A Curious Indian Cadaver

by Shamini Flint

  “So Tanvir killed Ashu? But what about Tara Baba?”

  All his suspects were leaning forward in their chairs now, waiting for his answer. He had their undivided attention.

  “So let’s turn to Tara’s murder then…” It was like Cluedo, decided Singh. Who’d been in the library with a weapon at exactly the right moment?

  “Well?” asked Sameer when Singh did not continue for a couple of moments.

  “You might have killed Tara Singh, Sameer.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you believed he killed your beloved Ashu?”

  “If I believed that, I might have killed him.”

  “But he came over here to confront Tara about the mercury poisoning,” pointed out Mrs. Singh with the air of someone having to do her husband’s dirty work.

  “That’s right,” said Singh. “The behaviour of someone who did not know Tara was dead – unless of course it was a cunning attempt to pull wool over our eyes…”

  “You’re talking rubbish, old man.”

  Singh paused to wonder why the young always believed that the epithet ‘old’ constituted an insult. It indicated a complete failure to appreciate the value of experience. This hot-headed young fool could certainly use a wiser head on his shoulders.

  The doorbell rang before he could point this out to Sameer.

  Singh clambered to his feet slowly. The moment of the denouement was nigh and he was nervous. This was a high stakes game and he wasn’t above producing an ace from his sleeve. But would it be enough to win the hand?

  “Patel,” he said politely. “Would you escort our visitor in here?”

  ♦

  Jesvinder fainted. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she slumped to the ground. Sameer hurried to her side and gently carried her to the sofa where he laid her down. He spared a smile for Ashu but his underlying expression was filled with worry as she knelt down by the couch and hugged the reclining figure. He didn’t like recent developments, guessed Singh.

  “What’s going on?” The question was from Ranjit. He had risen to his feet as if yanked upright by a puppeteer as his sister walked in but now stood with his eyes focused on the floor, refusing to look up at the apparition that was Ashu. A strange reaction for a brother who had just seen his sister rise from the dead?

  Mahesh ran over to the girl and gave her a hug. “I’m glad you are here, Doctor Amma,” he whispered.

  “I’m glad to be home,” said Ashu, smiling a little through her tears, clasping her mother’s hand tightly.

  The inspector noted that Sameer was grimacing at her – trying to warn her that Singh had more conjuring tricks than a mere resurrection.

  “Who is this?” demanded Patel, although Singh had spotted him turn to the mantelpiece to stare at the framed photograph and then back at Ashu again. He knew, but couldn’t believe the evidence of his own eyes. His moustache was wriggling like a caterpillar as his mouth worked silently.

  “Ahh, I see introductions are in order,” said Singh. “Assistant Commissioner Patel, this is Ashu Kaur, previously presumed dead, granddaughter of Tara Singh, wife-to-be of Kirpal, sister of Ranjit and Tanvir, lover of Sameer…”

  He paused and looked around the room. This was the moment he had been waiting for but suddenly he was unsure whether to continue. Did he have the right to add to the trauma of those present? Especially Jesvinder? He remembered his recent case in Cambodia. He had weighed up justice against human heartbreak then, and regretted his decision almost every moment of every day. And now, that insidious choice was before him once more. Singh sighed. “And Ashu’s last role? A murderer, of course.”

  ♦

  “What?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Have you gone quite mad?”

  This must have been what the Tower of Babel sounded like, decided Singh, tempted to put his hands over his ears like a child.

  Sameer marched up to him until they were toe to toe. “What in hell are you talking about?” he demanded furiously. “How dare you say such a thing?”

  However, it was the accused killer – expression bewildered – who asked the most pertinent question. “Who’s dead?” said Ashu.

  It was Mrs. Singh who answered. “Your grandfather,” she said quietly. “Tara Baba is dead.”

  “Killed?” The voice was hollow with shock.

  Patel glanced at Singh quickly. The inspector had no difficulty in reading his mind – if this was the killer, she was a fine actress too.

  Well, that was indubitably the case. Hadn’t she played dead for almost a week?

  “Yes,” answered Mrs. Singh, who seemed to have appointed herself spokesperson for the moment. “The police say he was hit with his own walking stick.”

  Ashu grasped the back of a chair for balance and whispered, “But why would I want to hurt Tara Baba?”

  Singh was ready for that. “Because he was keeping you apart from Sameer, because he was poisoning the slum, because he was covering it up, because you suspected him of trying to kill you? Take your pick.”

  “But I thought you said it was Tanvir?” said Mrs. Singh.

  “I said that Tanvir had a good motive to kill Ashu,” corrected Singh. “But as you can see, she’s not actually dead.”

  “Did Tanvir make a mistake?”

  “With the identification? No, he did it on purpose.”

  “But why?” Mrs. Singh’s eyes and mouth made perfect circles of shock.

  “He thought that she’d run away with Sameer – didn’t want a manhunt until after the judgment so that nothing would interfere with his grand plans to turn Mumbai into a war zone.”

  “I could never have harmed Tara Baba. I loved him,” whispered Ashu.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Singh in his most cutting tone. “You killed him – an old man who loved you more than anyone. How could you do it?”

  “No, I didn’t – I swear it!”

  “Such a pity you’ll be gone again – arrested for the murder of your own flesh and blood – when your mother wakes up.” Singh knew that his words were causing pain but he gritted his teeth and persevered. “It will be like you died twice for her now.”

  Singh knew who had murdered Tara Singh, of course. Had known almost from the moment it transpired that Ashu was alive and therefore there was only one victim – and one killer – to be reckoned with. Tara Singh had been killed in a rage. The rage a brother might feel if he thought his beloved sister had been murdered. Callously done to death to preserve a dirty secret about tainted products at a factory. Not the older brother who only cared about honour and revenge but the younger one who already hated the old man for the years of humiliation he’d suffered at his hands.

  Singh sighed. How was it that he so often felt sorry for the murderers he identified?

  “Come, Ashu. It is time to go,” he said, refusing to acknowledge the bewilderment deepening to panic in her light eyes.

  There was a strangled cry from across the room. The inspector turned to watch him – surely he would break now? Singh didn’t believe, couldn’t believe that his murderer would let another be taken in his place. On cue, Ranjit fell to his knees, sobbing as if his heart would break. A sapling felled, thought Singh sadly.

  “I did it,” he sobbed. “It wasn’t Ashu, I swear. I killed Tara Baba.”

  Epilogue

  Patel, Mrs. Singh and the smug Singaporean inspector sat at a small table at Leopold’s drinking large quantities of beer. Well, the policemen were drinking beer. Mrs. Singh was drinking a sour lime juice with a puckered mouth.

  “But you knew it was Ranjit, isn’t that so? You accused Ashu to trick him into confessing.” Patel’s expression was of a man who intended to slam every stable door shut.

  Singh nodded. “I had to – there wasn’t really any evidence against him, you see.”

  “But how did you know?” asked Mrs. Singh, her tone suggesting that she expected him to confess to a lucky guess.

  The inspect
or smiled. It appeared that her days of being a supportive wife had been numbered. Just as well, really. Singh was not one who liked unexpected changes in routine.

  “He was always the most likely person to have killed Tara. He became convinced that Ashu hadn’t committed suicide – I think Farzana’s certainty that Ashu would never have done something like that was the final straw. He decided, based on what Ashu had told him about the factory, that his grandfather was responsible. It was the so-called death of Ashu that confused the issue for me. There was no way Ranjit would have harmed his sister. Once I realised that Ashu was alive…”

  Patel nodded energetically to acknowledge this insight – unlike Mrs. Singh, he was not stinting with praise.

  Singh continued, “Ranjit really hated the old man. Once he’d concluded that Tara murdered Ashu to protect his good name, well, there was always going to be trouble.”

  “He says he confronted Tara that evening after cremation. Old man is mocking him for getting wrong end of pole. Ranjit is losing his temper…” Patel trailed off as they both remembered the battered body of the frail old man.

  “At least he was brave enough to confess when he thought you were going to lock his sister away,” said the inspector’s wife tartly.

  “Yes, he was,” agreed Singh, feeling sorry for the skinny young beanpole.

  “But who tried to kill Ashu?” asked Mrs. Singh, who’d heard the whole story now from various sources but was struggling to turn the pieces into a complete picture. “Who tried to run her over?”

  “Tyler Junior arranged it,” said Singh. “After he told her that Tara was aware of the problem at the factory to quieten her down. He knew she’d head straight to her grandfather to demand the truth from him. Tyler couldn’t take that risk.” He continued, “Tara Singh was an impossible fellow but he really did love his granddaughter.” There were nods of agreement all around.

  The inspector paused to wonder how much Tara’s nationalist rhetoric had influenced Tanvir growing up. Would he have become a killer anyway or had his grandfather watered the seeds of anger? There was blame enough to go around, that much was sure.

  “We found that driver Ashu mentioned – the one she recognised as being Tara’s employee – had been seconded to Bharat Chemicals,” said Patel. “But Tyler is refusing to confess to this, of course,” added the Indian. “He wants all the dollars and cents to stop with Tara or Tanvir.” The policeman looked glum at the thought that he wouldn’t be able to pin attempted murder on Tyler Junior.

  Singh winced at the mangling of yet another metaphor but then said bracingly, “Don’t look so depressed – you did solve the murder of Tara Singh.” Assistant Commissioner Patel had been lauded in the newspapers as the hero of the hour, solving a murder within twenty-four hours of the discovery of the body as well as apprehending the perpetrator of the Mumbai mosque attacks so rapidly.

  The other man smiled his thanks.

  “What about the dead girl?” asked Singh, his thoughts turning to the corpse that had sparked the murder investigation that wasn’t.

  “No one has come forward to claim body. No missing persons matching her description.”

  Both men fell silent, aware that this Jane Doe – with no rich grandfather to demand answers – was destined to be a footnote in the annals of unsolved deaths.

  Patel cleared his throat. “How is your family, Mrs. Singh?”

  “My poor cousin,” she muttered in response.

  Jesvinder had awakened from her faint to discover she had regained a daughter but lost two sons. Sameer’s solicitous behaviour towards her suggested that the numbers would soon change again. Mahesh had remained with them too, unwilling to leave his precious Doctor Amma and return to the slum. Ashu had assured Singh that she would take care of him, include him in the family, even help his mother escape from the brutal father. She owed him so much. A further evening up of the numbers of menfolk, thought Singh. And she had the money to do it now that Tara was dead and she was the last heir left standing.

  “No husband and now no sons…” continued his wife.

  It was time to change the subject, decided Singh – he needed to get away from a contemplation of his wife’s enormous and conflicted family.

  “Jaswant?” he asked, seeking an update on the terrorist investigation.

  “We are finding his DNA at site of attack.”

  Singh nodded – it was a sort of justice, he supposed.

  “We have also managed to convince people that attack on Gol Mosque was by Sikh separatists, trying to cause very much trouble,” explained Patel.

  Singh had seen the wall-to-wall coverage on television. “So, there have been no reprisals for the attack? Their plan failed?”

  Patel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, no reprisals against Hindus or Moslems but igurdwara was torched outside town and a few Sikhs were killed.”

  Singh closed his eyes and contemplated the gloom within. Circles within circles. Would a child of one of these dead men – killed in a holy place – grow up with revenge on his mind like Tanvir Singh had done? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  The fat policeman from Singapore was pleased that his flight home was that evening. He would gladly fly over the rust and blue sea of slums and return to Singapore. Superintendent Chen had relented – no doubt the unsolved murder rate had spiked uncontrollably – and he was to be allowed back at his desk. He looked forward to having a smoke with only the usual amount of social opprobrium. In the meantime, there was only one thing for it. Inspector Singh stole a glance at his wife and then beckoned for a waiter. A beer would definitely help pass the time.

  EOF