The Case of the Missing Servant avpm-1

by Tarquin Hall

  "The vehicle belongs to one Mr. Surinder Jagga, three number, A, Block Two, Chandigarh Apartments, Phase Four, Home Town, Sector 18, Gurgaon," divulged Jyoti Auntie.

  Mummy wrote down the details (she did not have a head for remembering addresses) and thanked her.

  "You're playing bridge on Saturday, is it?" asked Jyoti Auntie.

  "Certainly, if not totally," said Mummy. "Just my son, Chubby, is facing some difficulty and requires assistance."

  "Nothing serious, I hope."

  "Let us say it is nothing I cannot sort out," said Mummy.

  Less than two hours later, Mummy and Majnu pulled up outside Block Two, Chandigarh Apartments, Phase Four, Home Town, Sector 18, Gurgaon.

  Fat Throat's black BMW was parked in front of the building.

  "You wait here and don't do sleeping," instructed Mummy. "Just I'm going to check around. Should be I'll revert in ten minutes. But in case of emergency, call home and inform my son's good wife. You're having the number, na?"

  "Yes, madam," sighed Majnu, who was only half listening and privately lamenting the fact that he had missed his lunch.

  Mummy let herself out of the car and made her way to the entrance to Block Two.

  Chandigarh Apartments was not one of the high-end superluxury developments. It housed call center workers and IT grunts, most of whom hailed from small towns across the subcontinent and had flocked to Delhi to live the new Indian dream.

  Like so much of Gurgaon's new housing, which had been sold for considerable sums amid a blitz of slick marketing and-false-assurances of round-the-clock water and electricity supplies, Block Two was beginning to crumble. Less than two years after its "completion," tiles had started falling off its facade; the monsoon rains had left enormous damp stains on the walls and ceilings; and the wooden window frames were warped.

  The lift was out of order and Mummy had to climb the stairwell where the builders (who had cobbled together the structure with substandard bricks) had failed to remove blobs of plaster from the bare concrete stairs. Here and there, wires hung incongruously from the walls as if the very innards of the building were spilling out.

  Mummy, bag in hand, soon reached the third floor landing.

  Flat 3A was on the immediate left.

  A pair of a men's black slip-on shoes lay in front of the door. On the wall to one side of it hung a plaque that read:

  TRUSTWORTHY PROPERTY DEALERS LTD.

  OWNER: SHRI SURINDER JAGGA

  This was all the information Puri's mother required for the time being.

  Now that she knew Fat Throat was a property broker, Mummy would ask around and find out more about him. With any luck, someone might be able to tell her what Jagga and his co-conspirator, Red Boots, were up to.

  Mummy turned to head back downstairs. But just then, the door swung open.

  Standing there in the doorway, eclipsing a good two-thirds of the frame, was Fat Throat, no longer dressed in his white linen suit but a black cotton kurta pajama. Behind him in the poorly lit interior she could make out another, smaller figure.

  Surinder Jagga narrowed his eyes and stared at Mummy suspiciously, as if he recognized her, and said, in the same deep, chiling voice she remembered from the Drums of Heaven restaurant, "Yes, madam? You're lost?"

  Mummy, caught off guard and intimidated by the sheer size of the man and his thuggish bearing, stuttered, "I…see…well…just I'm looking for, umm, Block Three."

  "This is Block Two," answered Fat Throat abruptly.

  "Oh dear, silly me. Thank you, ji. So confusing it is, na?" she said and started down the stairs.

  Mummy had taken only a few steps when Fat Throat called after her.

  "Wait, Auntie!"

  She stopped, feeling her heart beat a little faster. Without turning around, she reached inside her handbag and wrapped her fingers around her can of Mace.

  Could be, he spotted us following him home, Mummy said to herself. Curse that idiot driver of mine. It's all his fault, na.

  "Which apartment you want?" Fat Throat asked.

  "Um…a…apartment six number, A," she ventured.

  There was a pause.

  "The Chawlas, is it?" he asked.

  "That's right."

  "OK, auntie, it's across the way," he said. "You want I should send someone with you?"

  "No, no, it's quite all right," she said, breathing a sigh of relief.

  Mummy continued on her way. As she made the first turn in the stairs, she heard another voice coming from the landing above her. Looking up, she saw a second man emerge from Fat Throat's apartment.

  He stooped to put on his black shoes and, in the shaft of light coming in through a window in the stairwell, Mummy got a good look at his face.

  She recognized him instantly.

  It was Mr. Sinha, one of Chubby's elderly neighbors. And he was carrying two thick briefcases. One in each hand.

  Seventeen

  Pandemonium broke out when Ajay Kasliwal arrived at the Jaipur District and Sessions courthouse at eleven o'clock the following morning.

  But it was carefully orchestrated.

  Rather than being brought in through the building's back entrance, away from the eye of the media storm, he was escorted through the main gate in a police Jeep.

  Twenty-five or so constables made a show of trying to hold back the baying pack of "snappers" (which had grown significantly in number). But the determined press-wallahs quickly surrounded the vehicle. And as the accused stepped down from the back of the Jeep with the police around him, he was accosted by lenses and microphone-wielding reporters all screaming questions at once.

  A couple of burly constables then took Kasliwal by his arms. With some of their colleagues acting like American football linebackers, they tunneled a passage through the crowd, frog-marching him inside the courthouse.

  Inspector Shekhawat-plenty of starch in his spotless white shirt; comb grooves etched in his wavy hair-stood to one side of the steps, watching the "chaotic scenes" that he knew would play so well on TV.

  After the media tidal wave crashed violently against the entrance and was successfully repelled, he answered some of the reporters' questions.

  "Is it true you've discovered some bloodstains?"

  "Our forensics team put Ajay Kasliwal's Tata Sumo under the scanner and came up with dramatic results. Dried blood was found on the carpet at the back. There was so much, it had soaked through."

  "Anything else you can tell us?"

  "We also found a number of women's hairs. These also we are analyzing. Also, we found a woman's bloody fingerprint on the bottom of the backseat. So there's no doubt in my mind her body was placed there and driven to its final destination."

  "Can you confirm that Kasliwal refused to answer questions yesterday?"

  "Yes, under interrogation he refused to answer any and all questions."

  "Why he chose to be silent?"

  "It's his right, actually. But it's unusual. An innocent man has nothing to hide."

  Puri slipped past Shekhawat unnoticed and made his way inside. He found the corridor outside Court 6 crowded with defendants, plaintiffs, witnesses and a disproportionately large number of advocates in white shirts and black jackets. The court crier appeared, calling out the names of those to be summoned before the judge in the same affected, nasal voice that Indian street vendors use to advertise their wares. The presiding judge, Puri discovered, had an extremely busy day ahead of him. Kasliwal's arraignment, although the most high-profile case, was only one of twenty slated to be heard.

  Some would require only a few minutes of His Honor's time: a deposition would be taken and then the case would have to be adjourned because a key piece of evidence had gone missing and the police needed time to track it down (a classic delaying tactic). Others might drag on for thirty or forty minutes while the lawyers wrangled over a precedent in law established in a landmark case dating back to Mughal times.

  Puri chatted to an advocate he met while waiting in the
corridor for Kasliwal's arraignment to begin. The young man was representing himself against a former client who had paid him with a bad check.

  "How long has your case been going on?" asked Puri.

  "Nearly two years," replied the advocate. "Every time I want to get a court date, I have to pay a bribe to the clerk. But then my client feathers the judge's nest and he adjourns the case, and so it goes on and on."

  "Judge Prasad has a sweet tooth, is it?" asked Puri.

  The advocate smiled wryly, evidently surprised by the detective's apparent naivete.

  "His shop is always open for business," answered the young man. "You can pay at the bench as easily as you buy milk from Mother Dairy."

  It was another twenty minutes before the court crier stepped out into the corridor and summoned Ajay Kasliwal.

  Soon, the accused was brought from the holding room where he'd spent the past thirty minutes consulting his lawyer.

  Puri clipped into the courtroom ahead of him and, finding it packed to capacity, stood by the door. The gallery was cluttered with a hodgepodge of benches and old rickety cane chairs, some with holes in their seats. Before them, stretching across the breadth of the room, rose the bench, a solid wooden structure that looked like a dam designed to hold back flood-waters. In the center, wearing a black cape, thick glasses and a bomb-proof countenance, presided Judge Prasad. Two clerks and a typist sat on either side of him.

  When Kasliwal was led inside, every head in the gallery strained to watch him escorted to the dock, a little platform surrounded by a waist-high grille. It might well have dated back to the sepoy trials following the Indian mutiny against the British in 1857.

  Puri's client had clearly not slept a wink on the hard concrete floor of his cell. The bags under his eyes had darkened to the hue of ink and the tic in his eyelid had grown more pronounced, causing him to wink with perturbing frequency.

  The detective could only imagine how humiliated Kasliwal must feel. But he retained a dignified and defiant pose, standing erect with his arms behind him and chin held high. When he looked into the gallery and saw his immediate family sitting there, including his son, Bobby, who had flown in from London the night before, his expression conveyed confidence and courage.

  "State versus Ajay Kasliwal!" announced the court crier.

  Silence fell over the gallery as the print and wire service journalists readied their pens and notebooks.

  Judge Prasad was not one to stand on ceremony. His impatient manner suggested he would much rather be somewhere else (from what Puri had been told, his preferred location was the Jaipur golf course). This was not the Rajasthan High Court. There were no computers or microphones, no air-conditioning, no coffee machines dispensing sweet, frothy cups of Nescafe.

  This was a place of business.

  The more hearings Judge Prasad could pack into a single day, the more he could enrich his growing property portfolio. Thus, he did not allow lawyers to stand at their desks and engage in tedious examinations and cross-examinations. That was another luxury only the High Court could indulge. Here in Court 6, trials were conducted with all those gathered directly in front of him. This way, monetary bargaining and transactions could be conducted without anyone in the gallery overhearing.

  "Approach!" he instructed Kasliwal's lawyer and the state prosecutor, Veer Badhwar.

  Both men stepped forward and stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the bench.

  The hearing, conducted in Hindi, took all of ten minutes.

  First, Judge Prasad asked Mr. Badhwar to present the charges and he gladly did so. The prosecutor then called Inspector Shekhawat, who explained that bloodstains had been discovered in the back of Kasliwal's vehicle.

  The accused was then read the charges of rape and murder and asked how he pleaded.

  "Not guilty, Your Honor."

  His plea was entered into the record. Mr. Malhotra then asked that his client be granted bail.

  "Does the accused have an alibi for his location on the night of the murder?"

  "Sir, I respectfully submit the police have not provided ample proof that the murdered girl is my client's former maidservant. The body was cremated twenty-four hours after it was discovered and was not properly identified at the time."

  "Answer the question," said the judge impatiently as the typist hammered away at his keys, recording their verbal exchange.

  "He was at a friend's house, Your Honor," said Malhotra.

  "Is this friend willing to come forward?"

  "We have not been able to locate the friend at the present time, but we are confident we will do so within a few hours."

  "Does the police have any objection to the court granting bail?"

  "We do, Your Honor," answered Inspector Shekhawat. "The crime is a heinous one. The accused is a danger to the public."

  Judge Prasad scribbled something on the file that lay in front of him, checked his watch and then said, "Bail is denied. The accused is to be remanded into judicial custody. Constables, take him away."

  "Your Honor, I object. My client has no criminal record and is an upstanding member of the community."

  "Bail is denied. You are welcome to appeal the court's decision."

  The judge asked the clerk to search for a date for the trial to begin.

  Files and papers were moved back and forth across the bench; ledgers were opened and closed. The clerk ran his index finger over pages and columns until it came to rest on a spare slot nearly five months away. "April ninth at three forty-five," he said.

  Badhwar and Malhotra were dismissed and Kasliwal was led from the courtroom to be taken to the Central Jail. Within seconds, the gallery emptied as his family and the newspaper hacks went in pursuit of him.

  By the time he left the courtroom, another group of file-toting advocates and their clients had gathered in front of the bench.

  Puri lingered behind, not wanting to get caught in the crush at the door.

  The detective caught up with Bobby Kasliwal on the steps of the courthouse, where he was waiting for his mother and Malhotra, who had gone to bribe the appropriate clerk to set a date to appeal the bail verdict and bring forward the start of the trial.

  Puri was struck by how much Bobby took after his father-nose, chin and height were almost identical. He combed back his black hair in the same style. And he had adopted some of Ajay Kasliwal's mannerisms-the way in which he stood, for example, back straight and fingers laced together in a cradle.

  But Bobby's youthful mien betrayed his lack of experience. His life was lived through books. This was evident to Puri from the small indentations on the sides of his nose, the ink stain on his middle index finger and his pullover's threadbare elbows, which he'd worn down during long hours leaning on his desk studying his textbooks. Fidgeting constantly, he appeared to be inwardly grappling with fear and some form of regret.

  "Quite a journey you must have had," said Puri after introducing himself.

  "Yes, sir, the flight was nearly ten hours and then three more hours on the road," said Bobby, who was polite but made little eye contact. His right leg quivered nervously as if he was busting to go to the toilet.

  "By God! Must have been exhausting, no?" said Puri.

  "It was OK, sir, thank you, sir," he said automatically.

  "So tell me, how is England? Must be cold."

  "Very cold, sir. It rains too much."

  "But you're enjoying? London, that is?"

  "Very much, sir. It's a wonderful opportunity."

  Bobby looked over Puri's shoulder, evidently searching for any sign of his mother.

  "So your mummy is doing all right, is it?" asked the detective.

  "She's not been sleeping well, sir. She's getting migraines."

  Puri shook his head gravely.

  "It is only right and correct that you have come home," he said in a sympathetic, avuncular tone. "Your mummy and papa need every last drop of support they can get."

  He took Bobby gently by the arm and, pulling
him toward him, added, "I can only imagine what anxiety you and your near-or-dear are experiencing. Must be something akin to hell. But rest assured everything is being done to clear your papa's good name. By hook or crook we'll get these fraudulent charges reverted. I give you my word on that. Most Private Investigators never fails."

  He released Bobby's arm.

  "Thank you, sir. I'm very grateful to you. There's no way my father could have done this thing. How they can even suggest it, I don't know. He never broke one law in his entire life."

  "I understand you're planning to work with him after your studies are complete?"

  "Certainly, sir. It's always been my dream to work with Papa. There's so much I can learn from him. I want to make a difference the way he has."

  Puri fished out a copy of his business card and handed it to him.

  "Call me if any assistance is required. I can be reached night or day. If there's anything you wish to discuss-anything at all-dial my number. Confidentiality is my watchword."

  "Right, sir," said Bobby.

  Puri turned to leave, but twisted around on his left foot and exclaimed, "By God, so forgetful I'm getting these days! One question mark is there, actually."

  "Sir?" Bobby frowned.

  "Your whereabouts on the night of August twenty-first of this year? You were where exactly?"

  "In London, sir."

  "Acha! You already reached, is it?"

  "I flew two weeks earlier."

  "That is fine. Just I'm ticking all the boxes."

  "No problem, sir."

  Puri lingered for a moment, looking down at the ground, apparently lost in thought. Bobby put his hands in his pockets, took them out again and then folded them in front of his chest.

  "Did you get to know her-Mary, that is?" asked the detective after a long pause.

  "Know her, sir?"

  "Must be you talked with her?"

  "Not really, sir, she was, well, a servant. I mean, she made me tea and cleaned my clothes. That's about it. I was studying mostly."

  "Can you tell me her last name or where she came from?"