by Vaseem Khan
‘No,’ said Chopra. ‘That is what you agreed to do.’
‘That’s right,’ said Lala triumphantly. ‘And a bloody good job I did too. There were only four individuals who had access to the quantity of diclofenac needed to kill off the number of vultures my estimates show have perished in the past year at Doongerwadi. I visited each one. It turns out that one of them sold roughly such a quantity to a man calling himself Firdous Chichgar. Tall, bullish, pale-skinned older gentleman with a head of curly grey hair. Wearing a fine linen suit and cravat. Sound like anyone we know?’ Before Chopra could answer, Lala went on. ‘When I showed him a photograph of Cyrus Zorabian, he confirmed that it was the same man.’
Chopra was stunned.
Cyrus Zorabian had poisoned the vultures at Doongerwadi.
But why?
The answer, in light of recent revelations, was obvious.
Cyrus had secretly planned to sell Doongerwadi to Om Kaabra, and move the Towers of Silence to the new site at Vashi, the plot ostensibly set aside for a slum redevelopment project. He knew the backlash that would follow from his own community would be terrible, and so he had prepared the ground. By killing off the vultures at Doongerwadi his intention had been to bring to a head the long-running argument that it was now unsound for bodies to be left in the towers to decompose with little assistance from scavengers to dispose of them. This was probably also why Cyrus had sacked the priests who had attempted to introduce cremation to Doongerwadi. He could not afford to have the site being used in this alternative way, facilitating a possible route to its continued viability.
Clearly, Cyrus had planned everything, down to the last detail.
For a moment, Chopra marvelled at the man’s resolve.
Poisoning the vultures would have meant repeated visits to Doongerwadi, having injected the diclofenac into the bodies of rodents or other small animals that vultures would be tempted to eat, and then scattering them strategically around the forested site. And all of this without being found out. At least it explained his recent penchant for wandering about Doongerwadi late at night.
It had not been for the purposes of solitude, after all.
The ingenuity of the murdered Parsee was almost worthy of admiration. Almost . . .
He thanked Lala, ended the call, then went back to his notes.
He turned back to the page upon which he had listed all the suspects:
CZ estranged from son. Darius Zorabian married against CZ wishes. Darius angry with CZ for disinheriting him. Darius has no alibi.
CZ and Boman Jeejibhoy fell out over Darius spurning Boman’s daughter. Boman enraged, threatens CZ. Boman has no alibi.
CZ angers Anosh Ginwala, head corpse-bearer at Doongerwadi. Ginwala loses family, blames CZ. Ginwala has motive, means, but not opportunity.
CZ PA William Buckley is a former criminal, convicted of violent assault. Did he have grudge against CZ? If so, why?
He considered each suspect in turn, turning over in his mind everything he had learned.
Nothing sprang out from the morass of detail.
Time ticked away.
He checked his watch, then tapped at it with a fingernail. The damned thing was stuck again. The only reason he held on to it was in memory of his late father, who had given it to him on the day of his wedding. He took off the watch, held it beside his ear, then set it down on the table, beside his cup.
The sight triggered an unexpected memory, and he was gripped by the strange sensation that he had seen this before . . .
Buckley.
When he had met Buckley at the coffee shop, the PA’s watch had also been set down on the table, beside his coffee cup. It had been flat on its face, the straps stretched out like the arms of a penitent. And on the back of the casing, inscribed in Roman script, had been words.
At the time, something had bothered him about the watch. He now knew it was the inscription. The words hung before him, outlined in fire. And in those words: revelation.
A man of principle
The Samundra Mahal was as he remembered it, whitewashed and breezy against the blue dome of the sky. This time he was let in by a creaking houseboy who led him down the ancestral fairway to the same drawing room in which he had met Perizaad Zorabian for the first time.
Buckley was standing by the window, silhouetted by the falling light. A glass of what looked like whisky was clutched in his left hand; his right foot tapped lightly against the mosaic floor, revealing his inner agitation. From her seat behind the desk, Perizaad Zorabian watched him with an expression of concern.
When Chopra entered they turned as one to watch him make his way to the centre of the room.
‘What is this about?’ snapped Buckley.
‘It is about a watch,’ said Chopra calmly.
For an instant, the Englishman’s brow clouded with confusion, and then his eyes widened.
Chopra pointed at Buckley’s wrist. ‘May I?’
He saw the conflict in the PA’s smooth-shaven features. He shot a glance at Perizaad, who had risen behind her desk, her hands bunched into fists.
They exchanged a look, and then Perizaad nodded.
Buckley took off the watch and handed it to Chopra.
‘I saw the inscription on the back when we met in the coffee shop. But at the time it simply did not register.’
He held the watch to his face, and read the inscription aloud. ‘For a man of principle, PZ.’
Turning to Perizaad, he said, ‘You gave him this watch. And so I had to ask myself: why would you do that? Why would you give such a watch, such an inscription, to a man you did not even wish to give a job?’
Perizaad’s shoulders straightened. ‘You clearly know the answer, so why ask the question?’
‘How long have you been . . . together?’
‘We are not together. Not really. Being together, truly together, would mean that we could be open about our relationship.’
‘What stopped you?’
‘You know the answer to that too.’
Chopra nodded. ‘Cyrus. He would never have approved of a match between his daughter and his PA. A white man, a non-Parsee, an employee.’ He faced Buckley. ‘When last we met you said to me: “I had no reason to kill the man.” We can both agree that that premise no longer holds. Perhaps Cyrus found out about your affair. Perhaps he wished to confront you. You called him that evening, asked him to meet you at Doongerwadi. You knew he liked to go there. You knew he had his own key to the gate. Perhaps your intention was to reason with him, far from prying eyes, listening ears. He let you in, led you into the forest. You talked. The talk flared into an argument. Things got out of hand. Or maybe you planned it that way from the very beginning.’
Buckley was shaking his head. ‘You could not be more wrong. Cyrus never knew about Perizaad and me. We were careful to keep it a secret. We knew that we would have to tell him one day, but we weren’t ready, not yet. At least, I was not.’ He glanced at Perizaad, a curious sense of shame softening his hard features. ‘I had nothing to do with his death, Chopra. Do you really think I would murder the father of the woman I love, the woman I hope to spend my life with?’
‘I have seen men kill each other for a million reasons,’ said Chopra phlegmatically.
‘No!’
They both turned.
Perizaad’s face was suffused with anger. She moved out from behind the desk, walked to Buckley, and stood by his side. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about. William could not have killed my father.’
‘Yet you chose to keep your affair a secret from me.’ Again, Chopra allowed his annoyance to show. ‘You have continually hampered my investigation by not presenting me with all the facts.’
‘I didn’t tell you about William because I knew you’d jump to the wrong conclusion. You knew my father was a traditionalist. You’d suspect he confronted William about me – exactly the scenario you have just painted.’
‘I wonder,’ said Chopra, ‘if you are in full possessi
on of the facts. Did you know, for instance, that William Buckley was once Adam Beresford, a convicted criminal who served time in a British prison for violent assault?’
She gave a sharp intake of breath, her body stiffening. Beside her Buckley had gone the colour of milk.
‘You’re lying,’ hissed Perizaad.
Chopra said nothing. There was no need.
She turned to Buckley, her eyes frantically searching his face. What she saw told her all she needed to know. ‘How could you keep something like that from me?’
Buckley could not meet her gaze. ‘Because I did not want to lose your respect. Because you are the most capable, remarkable, intelligent, exhilarating woman I have ever met. Because I was in love with you. And because I was afraid.’
‘What about honesty? What about truth?’
Buckley hung his head. ‘I wish I could go back and do things differently. I was a coward. Adam Beresford is who I once was. I haven’t been that man for many years. There is nothing else I can say.’
She stared at him. And then she reached out and put a hand to his cheek. ‘If you had trusted me, I would have trusted you.’
He looked into her eyes. ‘I never expected this. To find someone I adored at this stage of my life. I was afraid of losing you.’ He breathed deeply. ‘But I had nothing to do with your father’s death. Whatever happens next, that you must believe.’
She grasped his hands, squeezed. ‘I know.’
She turned to Chopra. ‘I told you before that William could not have killed my father. I meant that as the literal truth. On the night my father was murdered, he was with me. We knew my father would be tied up at the club that evening, so we spent the time together at William’s place.’
Chopra’s eyes moved over her face. He sensed the truth in her words.
He turned to Buckley. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me this when we spoke?’
‘You know why.’
‘I am investigating a murder. Discretion may be chivalrous but it was your duty to tell me the truth.’
Buckley said nothing.
‘Is there anything else you haven’t told me?’ asked Chopra. ‘Either of you?’
‘No,’ said Perizaad.
Buckley shook his head. ‘Over the last few years Cyrus has been increasingly secretive. As his PA you probably think I knew everything he was doing or involved in. Nothing could be further from the truth.’
‘So what now?’ asked Perizaad.
Chopra sighed. ‘I am not sure. I was certain I was on to something, but it appears to be another dead-end.’
Back outside, Chopra paused beneath a palm tree looming over the road.
A car raced by in a rush of warm wind.
He had felt so close. Close enough to reach out and touch the answer.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had all the pieces of the puzzle. He simply had to put them together in the right way.
The truth was that the suspects in most murders were circumscribed by a narrow circle made by the victim’s life; the people he knew or had contact with. That limited set of suspects could further be whittled down by the age-old policing stalwarts of motive, means, opportunity. Completely random murders were almost unheard of. People didn’t just wander out of their homes, pick up a weapon, and bash in the skull of a stranger.
He took out his notebook.
It was all here, everything he needed.
He ticked off the suspects one by one.
William Buckley. In light of the meeting he had just had he felt confident in eliminating the Englishman from his list of suspects.
Which left Jeejibhoy, Ginwala and Darius Zorabian.
A certainty had slowly formed in him that Cyrus’s killer was someone close to him. Someone who could write to him in Latin, obliquely threatening him. Which meant that as much as Ginwala hated the man, he was probably not the killer. Besides, Ginwala had been seen in his hut, dead to the world, around the time of the murder.
Jeejibhoy and Darius, then.
Two men chained together by a broken promise. A promise made by Cyrus to his old friend to unite their two houses. Both men furious at Cyrus, for different reasons.
The thought that had been lurking just below the surface of his mind snapped into clarity.
The killer had summoned Cyrus to Doongerwadi on the night of his death. Cyrus’s phone records showed that the call that had drawn him out from the Vulture Club had been made from an untraceable phone. But that was not the point. The point was that the killer had to have known that Cyrus would come to Doongerwadi. Would the old Parsee really have done that for Boman Jeejibhoy, a man who had already threatened him publicly? Who had tried to oust him from the club?
No. Chopra could not see that.
Which left Darius.
Surely Cyrus would have been willing to drop everything and meet his estranged son. All Darius would have had to do was to feed his father a story about how he wished to return to the fold. How he would divorce his American wife, and submit himself to Cyrus’s edicts. But, once he had Cyrus in the isolation of Doongerwadi, had Darius instead attempted to make his father listen to reason? Chopra pictured a desperate Darius pleading to be re-instated, begging Cyrus to consider his unborn grandson. And Cyrus refusing to be moved. A heart as cold as stone. And the argument spiralling into something worse, the darkness of the woods transforming Darius’s pleas into a murderous rage.
Yes, it could have happened like that.
But there was something else, itching away at the back of Chopra’s mind.
Why Doongerwadi?
Yes, it was secluded, but it was also holy ground. It meant something to the killer. Chopra was suddenly sure of this, the thought flaming brightly like a fire given oxygen.
Cyrus Zorabian had been lured to Doongerwadi because the killer had discovered his plans to sell the place. Indeed, it was now clear to him that this was what the Latin letters sent to Cyrus had alluded to.
He felt the thought slide into place like a brick cemented carefully into position in a great wall. The wall felt solid, unbreachable.
On the heels of this thought came another: the killer had to have had a set of keys to Doongerwadi. Or they had known that Cyrus had his own set.
He felt the truth edging closer.
And then he had it.
A killer revealed
The late afternoon sun lit up the stone vultures standing guard atop the gates to the Ahura Mazda Parsee Sports and Social Gymkhana. As Chopra approached it seemed to him that their bald heads were aflame.
He stopped at the guard booth, flashed his ID, and spoke to the security guard.
‘Who is in charge of security at the club?’
‘That would be Anwar Sahib,’ replied the man.
‘Where can I find him?’
‘He is not here, sir. I will have to call him.’
‘Please do so.’
Fifteen minutes later a Tata Sumo four-by-four arrived. Mohammed Anwar, head of security for the Vulture Club, a small, neatly pressed man in a dark blue safari suit, got out. ‘What’s this all about?’ he asked.
‘I need to ask you some questions. About the night Cyrus Zorabian was killed.’
Anwar considered this, then nodded. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Who let him out that evening?’
Anwar looked at the guard. ‘If I recall, you were on duty that night, weren’t you, Mahajan?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did he say anything to you?’ said Chopra.
‘Yes. He swore at me to open the gates.’
Chopra raised an eyebrow. ‘Was that usual?’
The guard shrugged. ‘You never could tell with Mr Zorabian. Sometimes, he’d laugh and joke with you – he knew a lot of dirty jokes – and at other times he looked like he wanted to rope you to the back of his jeep and race through the streets. He had a filthy temper.’ A thought seemed to occur to him, and he glanced fearfully at Anwar. ‘I hope I’m not speaking out of turn. I need this job.’
‘The man is dead,’ said Chopra. ‘Anything you tell me stays between us. That night, would you say he was agitated?’
‘He flew out of here like a tiger with its tail on fire, if that’s what you mean.’
‘After he left, did anyone follow him from the club?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Is there another way out?’
‘There’s a fire exit at the rear,’ supplied Anwar.
‘Show me.’
He allowed the puzzled head of security to lead him along a narrow, gated alley running by the side of the main building. They emerged into a manicured rear garden, bisected by tiled walkways and dotted with fountains and canopied garden tables. Anwar led him to a bolted door in the club’s fifteen-foot-high outer wall.
They stepped out into a deserted alleyway, lined by trees, and backing on to the rear façades of a succession of old buildings. To his left the alley petered to a dead-end. To the right, it travelled a hundred yards before hitting a gate that, he presumed, let out on to the main road.
‘Is that gate locked?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who has the keys to it?’
‘There are a couple of sets here. Technically the alley belongs to the club. But we don’t really use it for anything.’
A rat ran across the narrow road, vanishing into a drain on the far side.
Chopra turned back to look at the wall of the Vulture Club.
Mounted on the wall, directly above the door, was a video camera.
‘Is that camera active?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to see the recording for the evening that Cyrus was killed.’
‘That is not possible. Recordings are on a seven-day cycle, after which they are erased.’
Chopra cursed silently. He looked around the alley, his eyes roving over the confined space. His gaze swept upwards, to the building directly opposite the doorway. A succession of narrow windows looked down on the alley.
‘What is that building?’
‘That? It belongs to a software company. InterWeb Solutions.’