Bad Day at the Vulture Club

by Vaseem Khan

  Ginwala’s eyes flared, but he said nothing.

  ‘You did more than help Engineer move the body,’ con-tinued Chopra. ‘That day when I came to your home, you were using a cleaver to butcher meat. The cleaver was in your left hand. Cyrus’s killer hit him with one right-handed blow, and then two blows using his left hand. Our mistake was in thinking those blows came from the same man.’

  Ginwala stepped closer. ‘Why don’t you just say it?’ he murmured.

  ‘I think that Zubin Engineer called Cyrus here that night with the intention of killing him. They argued; at some point Cyrus turned his back. That was when Engineer hit him with the mace. Using his right hand. But he could not finish the job. Either because the shock of what he had done paralysed him or because wielding the heavy mace aggravated the old injury to his wrist. I believe he had already planned for you to help him move the body. That is why you set up an alibi for yourself. Engineer knew that you would not refuse him – he knew of your long-running animosity towards Cyrus. Perhaps he even promised to finally help you get the pay rise you wanted, once Cyrus was out of the way.

  ‘He could never have got that body into the dakhma by himself. You helped him drag the corpse to the tower. Except that at some point you realised that Cyrus was not a corpse. He was still alive. And so you decided to finish what Engineer had started. You took the mace and smashed Cyrus twice more in the back of his skull. You killed him.’

  In the flickering darkness Ginwala seemed to grow, a malevolent outline that loomed and billowed in the sweltering night. In that instant Chopra sensed something primeval in the man, feral and instinctive. It took all his resolve not to step backwards as the corpse-bearer’s gaze burned into him. He was glad that he had his revolver with him. Recovered by Rangwalla’s efforts from the condemned building into which he had crashed his van, he could feel its reassuring weight tucked into the back of his trousers.

  ‘Look around you, Chopra. You are standing in a place that is ageless, a place that embodies something greater than the life of one man. These stones, the vultures, the uncountable shades of men, women and children that hover above these towers, they make demands on those of us yet to face the holy fire. I do not expect someone like you to understand.’

  ‘Words cannot change the fact that you killed a man.’

  Ginwala grimaced. ‘You can prove that?’

  ‘You may have underestimated the abilities of modern science. No killer can interact with his victim without leaving some trace of his presence or taking some trace of the victim away with him. It is known as Locard’s Principle. The forensics team will find something. You wielded the mace – perhaps you left traces of DNA upon it? In his haste to return to the club Zubin was unable to clean it thoroughly. I suspect he washed it quickly in one of the club’s toilets and then returned it to its cabinet before his talk ended and the others came out again.

  ‘Or perhaps droplets of blood or hair from Cyrus’s skull found their way on to your clothes. Did you know that only the deepest wash will remove such evidence? There are a hundred tiny details that you may have overlooked. Once the CBI gets to work on you, they will find something. Sooner or later you will stumble.’

  Ginwala’s eyes flared. ‘Zubin has cleared me!’

  ‘How long before he admits that he did not deliver the fatal blow? He is an old man. Frail. The CBI detective in charge told me today that he was on the verge of cracking, that he wished to amend his initial statement. Perhaps he has finally decided to reveal your involvement. Guilt is weighing heavily on his conscience.’

  ‘You are lying!’

  ‘Can you afford to take that chance?’

  Ginwala’s face contorted with rage.

  He lowered his lantern, and looked down at his sandalled feet. For an instant Chopra thought the fight had gone out of him. And then he erupted with a roar, launching himself at the former policeman, swinging the lantern at his head. Chopra ducked just in time, the lantern bouncing off his shoulder. A thick fist crashed into his midriff, sending a shimmer of pain through him and knocking him off balance so that he fell forward, past Ginwala, and stumbled down the tiers, finally tripping and sprawling on to his stomach with his head dangling over the black well of the central pit. The waft of putrefying human flesh served as a dose of smelling salts; his head jerked back. He scrabbled to his feet in time to see Ginwala lumbering down the tiers towards him.

  Heaving a deep breath, Chopra cleared his head, and reached behind him for his revolver.

  Which was not there.

  Frantically, he patted his trousers, but there was no mistake.

  He looked past the bear-like shape of Ginwala and saw the revolver lying on the stonework by the door; in the tussle with the corpse-bearer the weapon had fallen out.

  Dammit.

  Chopra faced the man before him, and quickly assessed his chances. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and strong. He had always made it a point to keep himself fit, even after retiring from the force. But Ginwala was bigger, bulkier and hardened like tough leather. And he was powered by a cocktail of hatred, fear and a survival instinct sharpened to the point of a knife.

  Ginwala glared at him, the light from his lantern adding a sinister aspect to his craggy features. He reached under his shirt and emerged with a long-bladed knife.

  ‘Sometimes, when a body is diseased, I am forced to cut away the dead portions. It would be sacrilege to allow the vultures to consume tainted flesh.’ He raised the knife. ‘Men like Cyrus are a cancer. Their greed infects everything. They have everything, yet are still willing to take from those who have nothing.’

  ‘It is not too late,’ said Chopra, sweat flowing freely down his brow and into his eyes. ‘Surrender. Confess, and you may yet get off lightly.’

  Ginwala shook his head. ‘We both know that is not possible.’

  For one instant, a look of infinite regret crossed his worn features, as if perhaps, in another life, under different circumstances, he might have been the man he wished to be. Husband, father, a cherished and respected member of a dwindling community. But the dream was no more tangible than reflections on the surface of a bubble.

  He swung his head, as if to clear his mind.

  He focused once more on Chopra, his purpose as clear and naked as the heart of a flame.

  A growl rumbled in his throat. And then he charged.

  Chopra waited, his every instinct urging him to flee . . . another second . . . just a few more steps . . .

  As Ginwala closed on him, leaping forward with the knife in one hand, the lantern in the other, Chopra spun aside, neatly sidestepping the lunge, and returning with a windmilling slap that caught Ginwala on the back and propelled him towards the gaping mouth of the pit. Off balance, carried forward by his own momentum, there was nothing the corpse-bearer could do to prevent the inevitable.

  As he tumbled into darkness, he turned his head towards Chopra, his eyes blinking out a Morse code of shock, surprise, perhaps even grudging admiration.

  He vanished over the edge.

  Chopra did not wait.

  He raced up the tiers, scooped up his revolver, and bounded back to the central well.

  Peering into the pit, he saw that Ginwala had landed awkwardly. The corpse-bearer was slumped against the stone wall, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle. The lantern lay on its side, casting a grim yellow light across the horrifying landscape of half-decomposed bodies that had broken Ginwala’s fall.

  There was a terrible unreality to the sight.

  Chopra’s stomach did a quick, precise somersault; it took a concerted effort to keep its contents from spewing forth into the black pit.

  Ginwala stared up at him, his breathing laboured. A violent, inexpressible hunger lanced from his eyes. ‘We are older than you can possibly imagine,’ he gasped. ‘We will be here long after you are gone. Thus spake Zarathustra.’

  Chopra took out his phone, and dialled Inspector Kelkar at the CBI.

  Behind him, he heard the ru
stle and hiss of the vultures that called the Towers of Silence home.

  Homecoming

  ‘I don’t think of her as a vulture any more,’ said Poppy.

  Chopra glanced at his wife but decided against commenting. It was symptomatic of his wife’s character to become attached to a creature that she had, at first, professed to despise.

  They had driven to Doongerwadi together.

  The Tata van, repaired and with a gleaming new paint job, had ferried them through the midday traffic on their mission of mercy. The vulture – or Mehrunissa, as Poppy had christened her, after an ancient Indian queen – had recovered.

  On the way, they had stopped to see the vet Lala, who had rubber-stamped a clean bill of health.

  ‘She’s a tough one,’ he’d said. ‘A real survivor.’

  ‘Anyone who has to spend a month in my home with my mother-in-law had better be,’ Chopra had muttered.

  Now, as he watched the bird tentatively hop away, he felt a sudden unease.

  Doongerwadi may have been rescued from the avaricious designs of Om Kaabra, but the vultures that resided here were precariously placed. They existed in that nebulous haze between survival and extinction; the smallest change in their environment could send them over the edge. They had never been popular. The tiger, the peacock, the elephant – these were the creatures that symbolised India, feted the world over. But for the humble vulture there were only brickbats, curses and an undeserved reputation for malignity. Tigers and elephants between them mauled, trampled and gored to death hundreds of the nation’s citizens each year; but vultures provided a valuable service, mopping up carcasses – both animal and human – that would otherwise fester in the swollen heat.

  They were unloved because they were unlovely.

  Even in the animal kingdom life was a beauty contest.

  He watched as the bird gingerly spread her wings and launched herself into a short test flight, skimming low over the ground for a few metres, before skidding down into the dirt. She righted herself, shook out her neck, and clawed at the earth with her talons.

  Ganesha trotted behind, a sort of pachyderm Wilbur Wright encouraging vulture Orville to master the power of flight.

  The bird appeared to gain a second wind.

  She steadied herself, then lunged upwards, thrashing at the air with her wings, sending up a shower of dust that tickled Ganesha’s nose, and halted his headlong progress. The vulture rose into the air, then beat her way up to the rim of the Tower of Silence before them.

  Moments later, she had inveigled her way back into position among the indignant ranks of her colleagues.

  The vultures settled again, staring beady-eyed down at their visitors.

  ‘Are you sure she will be fine?’ Poppy said.

  ‘She’s a vulture,’ said Chopra. ‘You heard what Lala said: a real survivor.’

  They lingered a moment longer, then turned and headed back to the van.

  Behind them, the Tower of Silence, shrouded in myth and mystique, shimmered in the haze of dust and heat, before being swallowed, once more, by the forest.

  Author’s Note

  For the record: the Take the Poo to the Loo campaign is very real. Widely praised for its innovative approach, this Unicef-led social media campaign has achieved immense public awareness in India since its launch in March 2014. The initiative, part of the larger Total Sanitation Campaign launched by the Indian government in 1999, emerged from a conference organised by Unicef India and the Indian Institute of Technology. The Poo2Loo campaign, as it is informally known, has opened up a robust discussion around the previously taboo topic of open defecation.

  The petition depicted in this novel is also accurate in its wording, calling upon the President of India to embrace the challenge of ending open defecation.

  Finally, as incredible as it may seem to some readers, the official mascot of the movement is indeed an animated human-sized turd by the name of Mr Poo.

  Sometimes truth can be stranger than fiction.

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  Acknowledgements

  Once again I owe a debt of gratitude to my agent Euan Thorneycroft at A.M. Heath, my editor Ruth Tross at Mullholland, and Kerry Hood at Hodder. Between them, they have cajoled, wheedled, counselled, and, when all else fails, gently bullied me into turning out another half decent novel in the series. For me, this is the best of the lot and no small credit is due to my wonderful team.

  I would also like to thank the rest of the gang at Hodder, Maddy Marshall in marketing, Rachel Southey in production, Dom Gribben in audiobooks, Myrto Kalavrezou in publicity, and Ruth’s assistant Hannah Bond. Similar thanks go to Euan’s assistant Jo Thompson, and the others at A.M. Heath working tirelessly behind the scenes.

  Thank you also to Anna Woodbine and Sarah Christie for another wonderful cover, perhaps the best of all – I adore the peckish vulture!

  I hope these books continue to be as much fun to read as they are to write.