The Case of the Missing Servant avpm-1

by Tarquin Hall

  Of those forty families, seven or eight bore the tribal name Murmu.

  Puri told Father Peter that he wanted to visit their homes because the Government of India's Ministry of Development had identified the Murmus as the poorest and he wanted to assess their needs.

  The priest accepted this explanation without question and offered to act as the detective's guide.

  To reach the first house, they drove back to the main junction in the center of the town and turned left along the narrow road. It passed through the hills, which were cordoned with high fences. More yellow "No Trespassing" signs appeared and the driver explained that the uranium processing center was off behind the line of trees on their left.

  "See the pipe coming out of the jungle? That carries the waste from the plant-a sludge of toxic chemicals and crushed rock," chimed in Father Peter.

  Puri followed the path of the pipe with his eyes. It traveled under the road, crossed the narrow valley and climbed up the side of an enormous, 150-foot-high man-made dam that had been constructed across the mouth of the adjacent valley.

  "The waste is dumped there, is it?" he asked.

  "Behind the dam lies what they call the 'tailing pond,'" said Father Peter. "No one is allowed there. But when I was a boy, we used to go up the hill and throw stones into the mud." He grinned impishly at the memory of his childhood escapade. "It's very thick. Sometimes when it is very hot, the surface is hard and cows stray across it and get sucked down."

  Their destination was a hamlet that lay in the shadow of the dam.

  By now, it was early afternoon and the sun was at its hottest. The little sandy lanes that ran between the mud and straw compounds were empty save for a few chickens.

  Father Peter knocked on the first door and an Adivasi man with coal black skin, wearing a sarong and a baseball cap, answered. He was obviously delighted to see the priest and after a good deal more grinning and pleasantries, the detective was invited inside.

  A large well-swept courtyard lay at the center of the house. On one side, rows of cowpats were drying in the sun; on the other grew a banana tree, holding up a direct-to-home satellite receiver dish.

  Their host arranged a couple of chairs in the shade provided by the overhanging thatch roof and soon his daughter served them glasses of cold water and a packet of cream-filled biscuits.

  The daughter was too young to be Mary and Puri quickly established that she had no sisters. But he went through the motions of taking out his notebook and inquiring about the family's financial circumstances.

  The couple had had two other children, both boys. The elder was working down in the mines, where he loaded rocks onto a conveyor belt all day without any protective gloves or breathing apparatus; the other son had been born physically and mentally handicapped and died at the age of seven.

  "What problems did they face?" Puri asked them.

  The father made a face as if he did not know where to begin. Usually, he said, his words translated for the detective by Father Peter, he worked alongside his son in the mines. But he had been feeling weak for the past few months and had not been able to work. Because of this the family's income had been halved. Like seven hundred million other Indians who were yet to see the benefits of the country's economic growth, they were surviving on less than two dollars a day. To make matters worse, the water in their well had been poisoned by the chemicals from the tailing pond.

  "They can no longer drink it," explained Father Peter, almost jovially. "But they still use it for washing."

  "Have you thought about moving? It is dangerous to be here, no?" Puri asked them.

  "This is the only land we have left," said the father. "The jungle is mostly gone and we have nowhere else to go."

  Puri made a show of writing down more details and, before heading off to meet the next family, gave the father a thousand rupees. He also tried to impress upon him that it was hazardous to use the water from the well. But the man shrugged, resigned to his lot.

  It was not until the following afternoon, when the detective and Father Peter arrived at the eighth and final home on the list, that Puri's search came to an end.

  The house, which was much smaller than the others they had visited, stood next to a sal tree. In its shade a teenage girl and a young woman squatted playing a checkerslike game called Bagha-Chall, or Tigers and Goats. The board was a grid drawn in the sand; for game pieces they were using twenty-four little pebbles. In shape and color, they were indistinguishable from the ones Puri had found on the windowsill of the servant quarters in Raj Kasliwal Bhavan.

  "Hello, Mary, God bless you," said Father Peter in Santhal, the local language, greeting them both with a big, friendly smile.

  "Hello, Father." Mary, who was wearing an unusually large number of bangles on her wrists, beamed.

  She stood up, brushing away the hair from her eyes with her left hand, and a few of the bangles slid down her arm toward her elbow, revealing a scar on her wrist.

  "Is your father at home?" asked Father Peter.

  "He's inside, sleeping," she said.

  "Well, go and wake him, child. This gentleman has come all the way from Delhi and would like to speak with him."

  Mary shot Puri a suspicious look.

  "What does he want?" she asked.

  "He's here to help us."

  "How?"

  "Now, don't ask so many questions, my child. Run along and bring your father," said the priest.

  Puri watched Mary walk over to the house. She was an attractive young woman, slim, with dark brown eyes and long black hair tied in a ponytail. Her features, dusky and distinctly Adivasi, were strikingly similar to those of the murder victim dumped on Jaipur's Ajmer Road. "That poor girl has suffered a lot," the priest told Puri when she was out of earshot.

  "What happened to her?"

  "I hate to think. She won't tell anyone, not even her mother. Like so many of our young women, she went to the city to find work. When she came back a few months later, she could hardly walk. It's taken her weeks to recover, God protect her."

  "How did she get here?"

  "The Lord was watching over her. She collapsed at Ranchi station, but a member of our community took her to a hospital."

  Soon, Puri was sitting on a mat on the floor inside the house with Mary's father, Jacob, asking questions about the family's circumstances. Mary sat in the doorway listening to their conversation and sifting through a pot of lentils. All the while she watched Puri suspiciously.

  Like most of the men Puri had interviewed in the past 24 hours, Jacob worked in the mines, which provided just enough money to feed the family. But he was getting old and complained that he had no son to help him. Last year, after the family's rice crop failed, he had sent his eldest daughter to the city to work. For a while, she sent money home.

  "But she became sick and returned," said Jacob. "Now I'm afraid my health will give out and we will all starve."

  Puri made a note of this and then explained to Jacob that he ran a charity willing to provide the family with assistance. He made a show of taking out a calculator and punching in some figures and then announced that because they had no sons, they were eligible for an immediate payment of four thousand rupees. This was more than Jacob made in a month, and the sight of so much cash left him speechless. He took the wad from Puri with tears in his eyes and said to Father Peter, "It is a miracle!"

  Puri accepted the family's invitation to stay for dinner and, before the sun went down, managed to snap a surreptitious picture of Mary with his mobile phone.

  After dark, by the light of a paraffin lantern, they sat eating a simple meal of fish, rice and daal. The food, which was prepared by Mary and her mother, was delicious. Throughout the meal, Puri complimented the cooking and ate seconds and thirds.

  Afterward, as he, Jacob, Father Peter and the driver, who had joined them, shared the priest's pipe, he made his host an offer:

  "I would very much like to give your daughter a job working in my house in Delhi," h
e said. "The salary would be four thousand rupees a month and she would stay in the servant quarters."

  Mary looked horrified by this suggestion. "No, Father, I won't go!" she protested immediately.

  Puri ignored her protest, adding, "Of course, I can understand why you would be concerned about her safety. You are welcome to bring her there yourself. I will provide the train tickets and we can all travel together. Perhaps Father Peter would like to come as well and we can find him a new cross for his church?"

  The detective knew it was too good an offer for Jacob to turn down. It was the answer to all his prayers.

  Sure enough, despite Mary's misgivings, her father soon agreed to Puri's terms. They would leave for Delhi the next day.

  Twenty-Three

  Mummy's little Maruti Zen crept along the road in Mehrauli, southwest Delhi. The road was lined with imposing walls topped with shards of broken glass. Behind these lay "farmhouses," some of the largest and most expensive properties anywhere in the capital, all of them built on land illegally appropriated by the wealthy and well connected. Mummy had visited one a few years ago during Holi. It had been like a mini-Mughal palace-all marble archways and perfumed gardens.

  "Twenty-two!" called Majnu, Mummy's driver, as they passed another set of ornate wrought-iron gates and he read from the Italian marble plaque, which had been engraved with the owner's name: "KAKAR."

  Mummy was looking for number nineteen.

  She had been reliably informed by Neelam Auntie, one of her former neighbors in Punjabi Bagh, that it belonged to Rinku Kohli, Puri's childhood friend. Apparently, he spent most of his time in Mehrauli these days, often returning to Punjabi Bagh and his wife, children and elderly mother in the early hours of the morning.

  Everyone knew what Rinku got up to in his farmhouse. It was an open secret. But his standing had not suffered in the community as a result. Punjabi Bagh's men admired him because he was rich, drove a Range Rover and liked to drink a lot of imported Scotch, watch cricket and tell dirty jokes. And the women were always ready to forgive a good Punjabi boy for his improprieties, just so long as he respected his elders, observed all the family rituals and raised strong, confident boys of his own.

  "Must be making a packet," Neelam Auntie had commented admiringly.

  Mummy, though, had always understood Rinku's weaknesses. The fact that he had turned out rotten like his father had come as no surprise to her-neither did the fact that he and Chubby had chosen such different paths. But Rinku had practically grown up in her house and she had always been kind to him.

  Which was why Mummy felt confident asking for his help now. A serial adulterer and crook he might be, but nice, grey-haired Punjabi Bagh aunties still commanded his respect.

  "There it is! Stop!" she shouted.

  Majnu, who was sulking again because he had been working long hours helping shadow Red Boots, pulled up to the gate. A uniformed security guard approached his window.

  "Tell Rinku Kohli he's got a visitor," Mummy called over the driver's shoulder.

  "Madam, there's no one here by that name."

  "Just tell him Baby Auntie is here. I've brought his favorite ras malais."

  The guard hesitated.

  "Listen, I know he's living here, na. So might as well get on with it!"

  Reluctantly, the guard returned to his hut and picked up a phone. Mummy could see him through the glass talking to someone. Another minute passed before he emerged again and opened the gates.

  Majnu started the engine again and pulled inside.

  The "farmhouse" was set on three acres of immaculate, emerald lawns trimmed with neat hedges and lush flower beds. The house defied elegance, however. A modern redbrick structure with oblong windows and yellow awnings, it looked like a House of Fun at a fairground. At the back, Mummy spied a swimming pool and two tanned goris in bikinis sunning themselves. A lean, attractive Indian man in shorts and sunglasses was standing nearby, talking on a mobile phone and smoking a cigar.

  Majnu stopped in front of the house and, as Mummy got out clutching her Tupperware container, Rinku came bounding down the steps.

  "Baby Auntie, what a surprise!" he said, bending down to touch her feet.

  "Namaste beta. Just I was passing, na," she said, patting him on the shoulder. "No inconvenience caused, I hope?"

  "Not-at-all! You're most welcome any time, Auntie-ji, any time. Come, we'll have some tea."

  He was about to head back into the house and then thought better of it.

  "Actually, let's go on the lawn. It'll be quieter there."

  He led her to a spot where a garden table and chairs were arranged in the shade of a tree.

  "Oi! Chai lao!" he called to a servant who had emerged from the front of the house.

  Rinku and Mummy sat down and "did chitchat."

  "Where is Chubby?" asked Rinku.

  "Who knows where? So secretive he is."

  When the tea arrived, Rinku served her himself and then tucked into one of the ras malais, making suitably appreciative noises.

  "Wah! "

  Mummy saw her chance.

  "Beta, you heard some goonda did shooting at Chubby, na?" she said.

  Rinku's face darkened. He took off the sunglasses he'd been wearing and placed them on the table.

  "I heard, Auntie-ji. I'm sorry."

  "So close it was. Just one inch or so and he'd have been through. Fortunately, his chili plants saved the day."

  "Thank God," intoned Rinku.

  "Problem is, beta, Chubby's not doing proper security. When I help, he gets most upset. You of all people are knowing how stubborn he can be, na."

  "Only too well, Auntie-ji."

  "You know and understand. That is why I've come," she continued. "But, beta, you're not to tell Chubby we've talked. Equally, I won't go telling him you're helping in this matter."

  Rinku patted her fondly on the hand.

  "Auntie-ji," he said. "Chubby has always been like a brother to me. And you've been like a mother. We are family. Just tell me what I can do."

  Mummy proceeded to tell Rinku about how she had tracked down Red Boots, a corrupt police inspector called Inderjit Singh; and how he had met Surinder Jagga at the Drums of Heaven Restaurant, where, over spring rolls and whisky, they'd discussed a murder.

  "Since then I've done checking. Turns out, this fatty-throated fellow has desire to build one office block on Chubby's home. Already he's bought up some nearby plots. Recently one elderly neighbor, Mr. Sinha, sold out. Must be under pressure, but it has been hushed up."

  "Did Jagga come to Chubby with an offer?" asked Rinku.

  "Rumpi says Jagga visited some weeks back and offered Chubby a large sum for the land, but he turned him down flat. Jagga didn't threaten him, so naturally my detective son is unaware he did the shooting."

  "Jagga and Singh must have decided the best course of action was to get rid of Chubby," said Rinku. "They probably thought someone else would get the blame and then Rumpi would take their offer and sell up."

  "Jagga and Inspector Singh are bad sorts, that is for sure," added Mummy.

  Rinku looked as if he couldn't make up his mind whether to congratulate Mummy on her brilliant detective work or scold her for taking so many risks.

  "You've been keeping quite busy, isn't it, Auntie-ji." Rinku smiled, quietly impressed.

  "Well, what to do, beta? Someone's got to look out for Chubby, after all."

  "I know, Baby Auntie, we all worry about him. He doesn't look after himself, actually. But at your age you shouldn't be running around getting involved in this kind of thing. These people can be dangerous. Property brokers are the worst kind."

  "Don't be silly, beta, I'm quite capable of looking after myself, na."

  Rinku laughed. "I've never doubted that, Baby Auntie. But you've done more than enough. Leave this with me, OK? I'll take care of it."

  "You know this Jagga fellow, is it?"

  "I know people who know him," said Rinku, a little hesitantly. He p
aused. "Auntie-ji, I promise I'll sort it out. Trust me."

  "Don't do rough stuff, beta, please."

  "Of course not, Auntie-ji!"

  "And not a word to Chubby."

  "Not one word! Now I'll walk you to your car."

  Flush was also busy while Puri was in Jharkhand. But he was finding keeping tabs on Mahinder Gupta deeply unsatisfying.

  Never before had he trailed such a boring individual.

  Mr. Gupta's routine was numbingly predictable.

  On the day before Puri returned to Delhi with Mary, he woke at a quarter to six, spent ten minutes on his automatic toilet (which sluiced and dried his bottom and told him to "have a nice day"), changed out of his pajamas into his tracksuit, and made his way to the kitchen.

  There he gulped down a protein shake.

  At 6:30, Bunty, his one-thousand-rupee-per-hour personal trainer arrived and, for the next thirty minutes, put Gupta through his paces in his personal gym.

  Afterward, the BPO executive had a shower and then changed into a smart business suit and tie.

  At 7:30, he took the lift down to the underground car park to his BMW. Pavan, the car-saaf-wallah, had finished washing and waxing the blue paintwork to perfection, and for this he received payment of twenty rupees.

  The car sparkled in the early morning sunshine as the driver pulled out of the gates and took the turning for the NOIDA expressway toll road. He did not have to fight too hard for space amid the frenetic traffic. Given the Beemer's Brahmanical status at the top of India's vehicular caste system (bicyclists being the dalits of the road), few cars dared to cut in front of it or venture too close lest they contaminate its uncorrupted, venerated bodywork.

  Gupta, meanwhile, sat on the backseat with the automatic windows closed and the air-conditioning on, blissfully isolated from the diesel fumes and wretched hawkers. He kept half an eye on his in-car LCD TV, which was tuned to a morning business program, while reading his overnight emails from Hong Kong on his BlackBerry. He also put in calls to New York, Mumbai and Singapore.

  At the main gate to Analytix Technologies, Gupta's employers, the guards stood to attention as the BMW left the dusty, bumpy feed road and glided over the pristine tarmac of the car park, pulling up at the entrance to the glass-paneled office block.