by Tarquin Hall
It occurred to him to take a few photographs of the manicured landscape with the new mobile phone Puri had given him. How else would he be able to prove to the people in his village that such an empty, beautiful place existed?
Puri was not a member of the Golden Greens Golf Course, although he would have liked to be. Not for the sake of playing (secretly he couldn't stand the game-the ball was always ending up in those bloody ponds), but for making contacts among India's new money, the BPO (Business Process Outsourcing)-cum-MNC (Multi-National Corporation) crowd.
Such types-as well as many politicians, senior babus and Supreme Court judges-were often to be found on these new fairways to the south and east of the capital. In Delhi, all big deals were now being done on the putting greens. Playing golf had become as vital a skill for an Indian detective as picking a lock. In the past few years, Puri had had to invest in private lessons, a set of Titleist clubs and appropriate apparel, including argyle socks.
But the fees for the clubs were beyond his means and he often had to rely on others to sign him in as a guest.
Rinku, his closest childhood friend, had recently joined the Golden Greens.
He was standing in reception wearing alligator cowboy boots, jeans and a white shirt embroidered with an American eagle.
"Good to see you, buddy! Looks like you've put on a few more pounds, yaar!"
"You're one to talk, you bugger," said the detective as they embraced. "Sab changa?"
Rinku's family had been neighbors of the Puris in Punjabi Bagh and they had grown up playing in the street together. All through their teenage years they had been inseparable. But in their adult lives, they had drifted apart.
Puri's military career had exposed him to many new people, places and experiences, and he'd become less parochial in his outlook. By contrast, Rinku had married the nineteen-year-old girl next door, whose main aspiration in life had been to wear four hundred grams of gold jewelery at her wedding. He had followed his father into the building business and, during the boom of the past ten years, made a fortune putting up low-cost multistory apartment blocks in Gurgaon and Dwarka.
Few industries are as dirty as the Delhi construction business, and Rinku had broken every rule and then some. There was hardly a politician in north India he had not done a shady deal with; not a district collector or senior police-wallah to whom he hadn't passed a plastic bag full of cash.
At home in Punjabi Bagh, where he still lived in his father's house with his mother, wife and four children, Rinku was the devoted father and larger-than-life character who gave generously to the community, intervened in disputes and held the biggest Diwali party in the neighborhood. But he also owned a secret second home, bought in his son's name, a ten-acre "farmhouse" in Mehrauli. It was here that he entertained politicians and bureaucrats with gori prostitutes.
It greatly saddened Puri to see how Rinku had become part of what he referred to as "the Nexus," the syndicate of politicians, senior bureaucrats, businessmen and crime dons (a good many of whom doubled as politicians) who more or less ran the country. Rinku stood for everything that Puri saw as wrong with India. The disease of corruption was slowly eating away at his friend. You could see it in his eyes. They were paranoid and steely.
And yet Puri could never bring himself to break the bond between them. Rumpi said it was because he had spent his childhood trying to keep Rinku out of trouble.
"So, saale, when did you get membership, huh?" asked Puri.
They had gone to the bar and sat down at a table that provided a panoramic view of the Greg Norman-designed course.
"I'll let you in on a little secret, buddy," answered Rinku. "I'm a silent partner in this place."
He put a finger to his lips, the gold chains around his wrist shifting with a tinkle.
"Is it?" said Puri.
"Yah! And as a gift to you, I'm going to make you a member. No need to pay a farthing. No bloody joining fee. Nothing! You just come and go as you like."
"Rinku, I-"
"No argument, Chubby! This is final! On the house!"
"It's very kind of you, Rinku. But really, I can't accept," said Puri.
"'Very kind of you, Rinku, I can't,'" echoed Rinku mockingly. "What the hell's with all this formal bullshit, Chubby, huh? How long have we known each other? Can't a friend gift something to another friend anymore, huh?"
"Look, Rinku, try to understand, I can't accept that kind of favor."
"It's not a favor, yaar, it's a gift!"
Puri knew he could never make Rinku see sense; his friend couldn't accept that he did not live by his so-called code. He would have to accept the offer and then, in a few weeks, after Rinku had forgotten about the whole thing, renounce his membership.
"You're right," said the detective. "I don't know what I was thinking. Thank you."
"Bloody right, yaar. Sometimes I don't recognize you any more, Chubby. Have you forgotten where you're from or what?"
"Not at all," replied the detective. "I just forgot who I was talking to. It's been a long day. Now, why don't you buy me a drink, you bugger, and tell me about this man I'm interested in."
"Mahinder Gupta?"
Puri nodded.
"He's a Diet Coke," said Rinku dismissively.
"A what?"
"Bloody BPO type, yaar. Got a big American dick up his ass but thinks he's bloody master of the universe. Just like this lot."
Rinku scowled at the young men in suits standing around the bar. With their degrees in business management and BlackBerries, they were a different breed from Puri and Rinku.
"You know what's wrong with them, Chubby? None of them drink !"
The suits all turned and stared and then looked away quickly, exchanging nervous comments.
Their reaction pleased Rinku.
"Look at them!" He laughed. "They're like scared sheep because there's a wolf around! You know, Chubby, they go in for women's drinks: wine and that funny colored shit in fancy bottles. I swear they wear bloody bangles, the lot of them. The worst are the bankers. They'll take every last penny from you and they'll do it with a smile."
The waiter finally arrived at their table.
"Why the hell have you kept us waiting so long?" Rinku demanded.
"Sorry, sir."
"Don't give me sorry! Give me a drink! For this gentleman one extra-large Patiala peg with soda. For me the same. Bring a plate of seekh kebab and chicken tikka as well. Extra chutney. Got it? Make it fast!"
The waiter bowed and backed away from the table like a courtier at the throne of a Mughal conqueror.
"So what's this Diet Coke been up to, huh? Giving it to his best friend's sister or what?"
Puri tried to answer but he only got out a few words before Rinku interrupted.
"Chubby, tell me one thing," he said. "Why do you bother with these nothing people? After all these years, you're still chasing housewives. What's your fee-a few thousand a day, maximum? I'm making that every minute. Round the clock. Even sitting here now my cash till is registering. Ching!"
"Don't worry about me. I'm doing what I'm meant to be doing. This is my dharma."
"Dharma!" scoffed Rinku. "Dharma's for sadhus and sanyasis! This is the modern world, Chubby. Don't give me that spiritual shit, OK?"
Puri felt a flash of anger and shot back, "Not everyone is a…"
But he stopped himself speaking his mind, suddenly afraid that if he did, it would bring an end to their relationship once and for all.
"Not everyone is what? A bloody crook like me? Is that what you were going to say?"
They sat in silence for nearly a minute.
"Listen, I didn't come here to argue," said Puri eventually. "I'm not one to tell friends how to live or what to do. You've made your choices; I've made mine. Let's leave it at that."
The Patiala pegs arrived, both tumblers filled to the brim.
Puri picked up his and held it above the small round table that separated them. After a moment's hesitation, his friend did th
e same and they clinked glasses together.
Rinku downed half his Scotch and let out a loud, satisfied gasp, followed by a belch.
"That's a proper drink," he said.
"On that, we agree." Puri smiled.
"So this Sardaar-ji gets married and on his first night he has his way with his new wife. But the next morning he gets divorced. Why? Because he notices a tag on her underwear that says: Tested by Calvin Klein !"
Puri roared with laughter at the punch line to Rinku's latest Sikh joke.
The two men were on their second drink.
"I heard another one the other day," said the detective when he had wiped the tears from his cheeks.
"Santa Singh asked Banta Singh, 'why dogs don't marry?'"
"Why?" asked Rinku gamely.
"Because they're already leading a dog's life!"
Only a slick of grease and some green chutney remained on their snack plates by the time Puri broached the subject of Mahinder Gupta again.
"Your Diet Coke comes here most nights after work-around eight thirty, usually," Rinku told him. "Sometimes his fiancee joins him. She's as bloody nuts about golf as he is. I played a round with him just one time. He wouldn't take my bet. Said gambling was against the club rules! I tell you, Puri, these guys are as stiff as-"
"Anything else?" interrupted the detective.
Rinku drained his glass, eyeing his friend over the brim.
"He's got a place in a posh new block near here, Celestial Tower. All bought with white[2]. Can you believe it, Chubby? The guy's got a mortgage from the bank! What kind of bloody fool does that, I ask you? So you want to meet him-your Diet Coke?"
"Where is he?"
"In the corner."
There were three men sitting at the table Rinku indicated. They had arrived a few minutes earlier.
"A thousand bucks says you can't guess which one," said Rinku.
"Make it three thousand."
"You're on."
It took Puri less than thirty seconds to make his choice.
"He's the one in the middle."
"Shit yaar! How did you know?" said Rinku, fishing out the money and slapping it down on the table.
"Simple yaar!" He pronounced it "simm-pull." "The man on the right is wearing a wedding ring. So it shouldn't be him. His friend on the left is a Brahmin; I can see the thread through his vest. Guptas are banias, so it's not him. That leaves the gentleman in the middle."
Puri looked more searchingly at Mahinder Gupta. He was of average height, well built and especially hairy. His arms looked as if they had been carpeted in a shaggy black rug, his afternoon shadow was as swarthy as the dark side of the moon, and the many sprigs poking out from the neck of his golfer's smock indicated that even the tops of his shoulders were heavily forested. But Gupta did not strike Puri, who always made a point of sizing up a prospective bride or groom for himself, as the macho type. If anything, he seemed shy. When he spoke on his BlackBerry-he was using it most of the time-his voice was quiet. Gupta's reserved body language was also suggestive of someone who was guarded, who didn't want to let go for fear of showing some hidden part of his character.
Perhaps that was why he didn't drink.
"What did I tell you?" said Rinku. "Guy doesn't touch a drop of alcohol! Saala idiot!"
"What time will he play?"
"Should be any time."
A few minutes later, Gupta's golf partner arrived and the two of them headed off to the first tee.
"Chubby, you want to play a round?" asked Rinku.
"Not especially," said the detective.
"Thank God! I hate this bloody game, yaar! Give me cricket any day! So you want to come to the farmhouse? I've got some friends coming later for a party. They're from Ukraine. They've got legs as long as eucalyptus trees!"
"Rumpi is expecting me," said Puri, standing up.
"Oh, come on, Chubby, don't be so bloody boring, yaar! I'll make sure you don't get into trouble!"
"You've been getting me into trouble ever since we were four, you bugger!"
"Fine! Have it your way. But you don't know what you're missing!"
"I know exactly what I'm missing! That's why I'm going home."
Puri playfully slapped Rinku on the shoulder before making his escape.
On his way home, the detective considered how best to proceed in the Brigadier Kapoor case.
Mahinder Gupta struck Puri as somewhat dull-one of a new breed of young Indian men who spent their childhoods with their heads buried in books and their adult lives working fourteen-hour days in front of computer terminals. Such types were generally squeaky clean. The Americans had a word for them: "geeks."
Being a geek was not a crime. But there was something amiss.
Why would a successful, obviously fit and active BPO executive agree to marry a female four years his senior?
To find out, Puri would have to dig deeper.
First thing tomorrow morning, he would get his team of forensic accountants looking into Gupta's financial affairs. At the same time, he'd assign Flush to find out what the prospective groom was up to outside office hours and see what the servants knew.
Twelve
Puri did not reach home until ten o'clock, an hour later than usual.
The honk of the car's horn outside the main gate marked the start of his nightly domestic routine.
The family's two Labradors, Don and Junior, started barking, and, a moment later, the little metal hatch in the right-hand gate slid open. The grizzled face of the night-watchman, Bahadur, appeared, squinting in the bright glare of the headlights.
Bahadur was the most conscientious night watchman Puri had ever come across-he actually stayed awake all night. But his arthritis was getting worse and it took him an age to open first the left gate, then the right, a process that Handbrake watched restively, grinding the gears in anticipation.
Finally, the driver pulled inside, stopped in front of the house and then jumped out quickly to open the back door. As Boss stepped onto the driveway, Handbrake handed him his tiffin.
The dogs strained on their ropes, wagged their tails and whined pathetically. Puri petted them, told Handbrake (who was renting a room nearby) to be ready at nine sharp and then greeted Bahadur.
The old man, who was wearing a stocking cap with earflaps and a rough wool shawl wrapped around his neck and shoulders, was standing at attention with his back to the closed gates. He held his arms rigid at his sides.
"Ay bhai, is your heater working?" asked Puri, who had recently installed an electric heater in the sentry box in anticipation of the cold, damp smog that would soon descend upon Delhi.
"Haan-ji! Haan-ji!" called out Bahadur, saluting Puri.
"You've seen anything suspicious?"
"Nothing!"
"Very good, very good!"
Puri entered the house, swapped his shoes for his monogrammed slippers and poked his head into the living room. Rumpi was curled up on the couch in a nightie with her long hair down around her shoulders. She was engrossed in watching Kaun Banega Crorepati , India's version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? , but turned off the TV, greeted her husband and brought him up to date with what was going on in the house.
There were no visitors or guests, she told her husband. Radhika, their youngest daughter, who was studying in Pune, had called earlier. Malika had gone home to her children, alcoholic husband and impossible mother-in-law. And Monica and Sweetu had gone to bed in their respective quarters.
"Where's Mummy?" asked Puri, perching on the arm of the armchair nearest the door.
"She went out a few hours ago. I haven't heard from her."
"Did she say where she was going?"
"She mumbled something about visiting some auntie."
"Mumbled? Mummy doesn't do mumbling. I asked you to keep an eye on her, isn't it?"
"Oh please, Chubby, I'm not one of your spies. I can't be expected to keep track of her all the time. She comes and goes as she pleases. What am I supposed to do?
Lock her in the pantry?"
Puri frowned, hanging his head reflectively. His attention was drawn to the stain on the white carpet in the living room made by some prune juice Sweetu had carelessly spilled recently. It reminded him that he needed to have another word with that boy.
"I'm sorry, my dear, you're right of course," he conceded. "Keeping up to date on Mummy is not your responsibility. I'll try calling her myself. First I'm going upstairs to wash my face." This was code for: "I'm hungry and I'd like to eat in ten minutes."
After he'd freshened up and changed into a white kurta pajama and a cloth Sandown cap, Puri went up onto the roof to check on his chilies. The plants that had been caught in the cross fire appeared to be making a full recovery.
The detective was little closer to finding out who had shot at him. His sources inside Tihar jail had heard nothing about a new contract on his life. Tubelight's boys had not been able to find any witnesses to the shooting, either.
All the evidence pointed to the shooter being an amateur, an everyday person, who would have passed unnoticed in the street.
There was only one lead and it was tentative at best: Swami Nag had apparently returned to Delhi, but his whereabouts remained unknown.
Puri picked a chili to have with his dinner and made his way downstairs. Rumpi was busy in the kitchen chopping onions and tomatoes for the bhindi. When the ingredients were ready, she added them to the already frying pods and stirred. Next, she started cooking the rotis on a round tava, expertly holding them over a naked flame so they puffed up with hot air like balloons and became nice and soft.
A plate had already been placed on the kitchen table and Puri sat down in front of it. Presently, Rumpi served him some kadi chawal, bhindi and a couple of rotis. He helped himself to the plate of sliced tomato, cucumber and red onion, over which a little chat masala had been sprinkled, and then cast around the table for some salt.
"No salt, Chubby, it's bad for your heart," said Rumpi without turning around from the cooker.
Puri smiled to himself. Was he really that predictable?
"My dear," he said, trying to sound charming rather than patronizing but not proving entirely successful, "a little salt never did anyone any harm. It is hardly poison, after all. Besides, you've already cut down on the amount you're using, and we don't even have butter on our rotis any more."