The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken

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The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken Page 5

by Tarquin Hall


  'Jaams Scott! When he called, exactly?' Puri rose half out of his chair and sat down again.

  'Fifteen minutes back--'

  'Why you didn't tell me, Madam Rani?' Puri's tone was urgent, not accusatory. 'Scott is former Deputy Commissioner Metropolitan Police, London!'

  'Yes, sir, I--'

  'I worked with him few years back.'

  'Yes, sir, I--'

  'The Case of the Naked Jain, you remember?'

  Elizabeth Rani just nodded.

  'Former Deputy Commissioner Scott came begging to me for assistance. His case was dead in the water, we can say. Also, he was a fish out of water, working in India for the first time. Fortunately I was able to clear up the matter single-handedly. But, frankly speaking, Madam Rani, the working relationship - between Scott and my good self, that is - was not always smooth sailing. When all is said and done, these Angrezi types believe they know better. A lack of trust is there, actually.'

  Puri leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head.

  'Nowadays Scott is heading this International Cricket Federation anti-corruption unit,' he said, sounding hopeful. 'Must be he needs my help once again. Well, very good.'

  'Actually, sir, he resigned that post last week,' stated Elizabeth Rani.

  The detective's face showed startled dismay. 'Certain, Madam Rani?'

  'Yes, sir,' she said, handing him a press release printed off the ICF website.

  Puri read the first couple of lines and then said, 'So what's his game exactly?'

  'He requested an urgent meeting right away.'

  'He's here in Delhi, is it?'

  'Yes, sir. Staying at the Maharajah.'

  Puri was thoughtfully silent for a moment. 'I cannot meet him there,' he said. 'It would raise eyebrows - and suspicions, also.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'The Gymkhana Club is out of the question, also.'

  He leaned back in his executive swivel chair and looked over at the portraits hanging on the wall of his father, Om Chander Puri, and his long-dead guru, the patron saint of Indian detectives, Chanakya.

  'Madam Rani, we will need to do a Number Three Pickup,' he said. 'Get Randy Singh at International Backside on line.'

  James Scott - half-sleeve shirt, farmer's tan, ruddy complexion, semi-permanent frown - stepped out of the main doors of the Maharajah Hotel at exactly twelve-fifteen and asked the doorman to call him a taxi. The order was passed on to a subordinate, and then another, who in turn shouted the command into a microphone, his words booming from an amplifier installed at the taxi stand on the road beyond the hotel wall.

  'Ek taxi! Ek taxi! Jaldi karo!'

  Soon, a black-and-yellow Ambassador with lopsided suspension and the words 'Power Brake' painted on the bonnet chugged up to the door. Behind the wheel sat a Sikh wearing thick glasses and a pink turban. His beard was wrapped in a chin net.

  'I need to go to . . .' Scott referred to a piece of paper in his hand. 'Jaan taar maan taar,' he said in an affected Peter Sellers accent.

  The driver repeated the words back to himself, as if trying to make sense of baby babble, and then exclaimed with a triumphant grin, 'Jantar Mantar! Jantar Mantar. Very beauty place! No problem, good gentle man!' Holding the taxi's back door open, he added, 'My city your city.'

  After haggling over the price and agreeing to abide by the ruling of the taxi's archaic meter, they set off through the hotel's gates.

  'Which country, please?' asked the driver as he honked his way through Delhi's gridlock.

  'UK,' answered Scott. He looked out the window, hoping his aloofness would make it clear that he wasn't interested in conversation.

  'United Kingdom of Eng-land! Very good beauty countree! Ton-i Blaar. Manchestar Unite!'

  Scott gave a weak smile.

  'Personally my home Paanjab! Patiala! Very famous and beauty city also!'

  The taxi turned into the inner circle of Connaught Place - 'See fine architecture built by Britisher people, kind gentle man!' - with its pillared arcades. Out on the pavements, vendors were hawking bright Rajasthani cushion covers and bhel puri. Tourists sat on cane stools getting intricate henna designs painted on their hands. Smoke rose from barrows where sweet potatoes smouldered in hot charcoal.

  'You want nice Indian handicraft? Kashmiri shawl?'

  'No, thank you.'

  'Tasty chicken tikka?'

  'Just drive the taxi, will you?'

  'As you like, sir.'

  Twenty minutes later, after a prolonged journey to India Gate and back, the Ambassador reached its destination.

  'Do waiting, good gentle man?' asked the driver. 'I'm parking. You give missed call, OK?'

  Scott declined his offer, paid the fare and, with the words 'pleased to make friendship' ringing in his ears, hurried through the entrance to the park.

  To Scott's eyes, Jantar Mantar, the eighteenth-century astronomical observatory built by Maharajah Jai Singh II of Jaipur, looked like a cross between Escher's impossible cityscapes and a skate park. He passed orange-stained staircases that led nowhere, a large heart-shaped structure that curled in on itself, and a couple of enormous, empty bowls.

  Following the instructions that had been pushed under the door of his hotel room, he carried on straight through the park. An autorickshaw with a likeness of a curled sandal painted on the hood was waiting on the other side. No sooner had the Englishman clambered on to the back seat, hunched down so as to keep his head from hitting the low ceiling, than the three-wheeler's engine putt-putted into life and the vehicle jerked into action.

  The driver zigzagged through the frenetic traffic with the dexterity of a hare until they reached Sundar Nagar market. He stopped in front of a small commercial unit that housed an ATM machine and indicated that this was their destination. An OUT OF ORDER sign hung from the handle of the glass door and this caused the Britisher to hesitate.'There must be some mistake,' he grumbled. But then, a security guard opened it for him. Cautiously, and with a pronounced frown, the ex-Scotland Yard man stepped forward and proceeded inside.

  For an ATM booth, it was spacious and plush, furnished with laminated wood panelling on the walls, red carpeting, a small coffee table stocked with bank deposit forms, and two leather armchairs. On one of these, a man sat reading a newspaper.

  'Good to meet you again, former Deputy Commissioner,' said Puri as he put aside the broadsheet and stood to greet his guest.

  'Christ alive, Vish!' exclaimed Scott. 'Was all that necessary? All the driving around and switching vehicles, I mean?'

  'Undoubtedly! You were followed, actually,' answered Puri.

  'Who says? Not that taxi driver - surely! Don't tell me that lunatic's one of yours!'

  'One of my best,' answered the detective, looking a little hurt.

  Scott ran a hand through his thinning hair. 'Right. Well. Sorry. He just went on a bit. About chicken tikka and shawls and God knows what else. Did he lose whoever it was?'

  'Naturally.'

  'Any idea who it was?'

  'Another private investigator. I know the fellow. An idiot person.'

  'He's probably working with the Indian Cricket Board. They'll be nervous I'm here. Want to know what I'm up to.' Scott glanced around him as if he'd just noticed the setting in which he found himself. 'Do you mind explaining why we're meeting here?' he asked.

  'I often make use of this place, former Deputy Commissioner. The location is central. It is private and most comfortable - air conditioning is there. Lovely it is in summertime.'

  'What if someone comes along and wants to withdraw some cash?'

  'Jagdish, the security guard, will make certain we don't face interruption.'

  Puri invited Scott to take a seat.

  'India hasn't changed one bit, has it?' observed the Britisher as he occupied one of the armchairs. 'It's still like Kim. Great Game, disguises, cleft sticks - all that stuff.'

  'Some changes are there,' said Puri. 'For one thing we have Angrezi liquor these days.' He produced
a bottle of Johnnie Walker from beneath the table. 'As I recall, you were not at all keen on our Indian whisky, isn't it?'

  'Let's just say it's an acquired taste,' said Scott.

  Puri mixed them each a glass of whisky and soda and they toasted one another's health.

  'So all is well with you, former Deputy Commissioner?' asked Puri.

  'Please just call me James, Vish.'

  'Absolutely, Sir Jaams. And tell me, how is the lovely Mrs Scott?'

  Scott shifted uneasily in his seat. 'Um . . . well, fine I suppose,' he said, looking faintly embarrassed. 'I mean . . . we got divorced. She . . . she's married to another man now, you see.'

  'Is it?' responded Puri, placing his drink on the table. 'Sir, I don't know what to say.'

  Scott gave a shrug. 'Worse things can happen,' he said, staring down into his glass, missing Puri's wide-eyed reaction. 'Now, look,' he continued. 'I understand you were there at the Durbar last night when Faheem Khan was murdered.'

  It took Puri a moment to recover from the revelation about the divorce. He had never met Mrs Scott to whom Scott had been married for thirty-odd years, but he had always asked after her. It felt as if he'd lost a friend.

  'Right, yes, correct,' said the detective, trying to collect his thoughts. 'It happened there before my eyes.'

  'Have the locals got it right? He was poisoned with aconite?'

  'That I could not say, sir. The laboratory report has not come into my possession. But it was poison. No doubt about it at all.'

  'Any idea how it got into the curry he was eating?'

  'Butter chicken,' corrected the detective.

  'Sorry?'

  'It's a Delhi dish popular all over these days - one of my personal favourites, actually. The Durbar version is really wonderful. Creamy and delicious. I myself was eating some last night minutes before the victim succumbed.'

  'There was a buffet, I understand.'

  'Correct. But waiters served those at the centre VVIP table. Faheem Khan was seated there himself, only.'

  'So given that you suffered no ill effects and presumably no one else did either, we can safely say that only Faheem Khan's plate was poisoned,' concluded Scott.

  The detective indicated his concurrence with a nod.

  'Think the son did it?' The Britisher's tone was breezy, but it suggested an inherent cynicism.

  'Fact is any number of persons present could have done the needful,' answered Puri.

  'You mean poisoned his food?'

  'It was lying untouched on the table for some time.'

  'He left the table?'

  'Ten minutes exactly,' answered the detective, keeping his knowledge of the Faheem Khan/Full Moon rendezvous to himself for the time being.

  'But surely if the aconite was added to his food at the table, someone would have noticed.'

  'Sir, has been my experience over these many years having investigated so many of cases that often people such things go unnoticed. Especially with so many of people getting up and down from their chairs like yoyos.'

  Puri sipped his Scotch. It wasn't as good as Indian whisky, he reflected. But then Britishers enjoyed bland things. Like toad in the hole and depressing poetry about damp valleys and all. Such a strange people: highly civilised in many ways, yet with no fire burning in their bellies. Still, there was something gratifying about helping them out when they turned up in Delhi. Despite their inherent conceit, their fundamental belief in the superiority of Western civilisation, they were always out of their depth here in India - trying to operate in a world that was impenetrable to them. 'Welcome to the real world!' he often felt like saying to them. 'Welcome to India!' And yet somehow Puri always found himself adopting a subservient manner when dealing with the British. India was free and independent, had been for more than sixty years now, but he couldn't help trying to impress upon them that he, too, was civilised. 'Sir, I take it your visit here is not a coincidence,' he said. 'Evidently you left London last night only and in something of a hurry, isn't it?'

  Puri had concluded as much from the fact that Scott had shaved with a plastic razor - no doubt supplied by his airline or hotel. There were no less than six nicks to his face and neck. He was also wearing odd socks.

  'I see you're as sharp as ever, Vish,' said the Britisher looking somewhat uncomfortable with the fact that his appearance was so easily interpreted. 'Yes, as it happens, I left London as soon as I heard the news. I had about five minutes to get my things from home. As for what I'm doing here, I'll come to that in a minute. I'm sure you heard that I resigned from the ICF.'

  'Yes, sir, after seven months in the job, only,' replied the detective who gave no indication that he had only come by this information earlier today.

  'It was eight. But that's hardly the point. It was a mistake to take the job. The ICF has no teeth and I found myself in an untenable position. I'm working for another organisation now, but I'll come to that in a minute. Firstly, I need to fill you in on what I got up to at the ICF. Obviously I do so in the strictest confidence.'

  'Confidentiality is my watchword, sir,' said the detective.

  'Yes, I know, Vish. You're a good man - which is why I'm here. We've had our differences in the past with regard to procedure. I'm thinking of the Jain fraud case, of course. But I want you to know that I've always had the highest regard for your abilities.'

  Puri took this as a compliment despite the patronising undertone.

  'I saw it as my job at the ICF to get to grips with the illegal betting business here on the subcontinent,' began Scott. 'It's a vast enterprise as you know, worth billions of dollars a year, with bookies in every town and city from here to Peshawar and Colombo. The Syndicate, as it's often called, is run by the individual known as Aga - the underworld kingpin, who's believed by most intelligence agencies, including the CIA and your Indian RAW, to reside in Pakistan under the protection of that country's intelligence agency, the ISI.

  'Aga has his fingers in a lot of other pies as well - gunrunning, terrorism, prostitution, you name it. But no one has ever satisfactorily identified how he runs the Syndicate. Are all the bookies in India, Pakistan and beyond part of the same outfit, as the conventional wisdom holds? Do they all pay Aga a remittance for operating in their given zones? Frankly, there are a lot of unanswered questions.'

  Scott went on to explain that in his view the only way to get to grips with Aga's organisation was first to identify the bookies working for him. And the only way to do that was to ascertain which players were on the take.

  'Number one on my list was young Kamran Khan,' continued the Britisher. 'There are times when his bowling's erratic. He's about the best fast pacer I've ever seen - up there with Curtly Ambrose, I'd say. He'll bowl two or three flawless overs and then suddenly a wide or a no ball. At times he'll also offer up an easy delivery as well - a four on a platter. It's a similar story with his batting.'

  Outside the ATM, a woman had stepped up to the door and was berating Jagdish, wanting to know why the cash machine wasn't working. The guard held his ground, insisting that the repairs would take at least an hour, until, cursing, she stormed off.

  'Please continue, sir,' said Puri. 'Coast is clear.'

  'Are you sure, Vish? It doesn't seem right somehow - us sitting here.'

  'This is India, sir,' said Puri with a flick of his hand.

  'Right, well, if you say so.' He took a glug of his Scotch before continuing. 'So as I was saying . . . at first, I made progress. By cross-referencing the names of attendees of international matches around the world - the UK, Dubai, Australia - with airline and hotel records, I identified a number of individuals who've stayed in hotels occupied by the teams. Two of these individuals were Indian nationals. The first was a certain Mohib Alam from here in Delhi. The second was from Mumbai, Vikas Sengar, whom everyone knew as "The Spade".'

  Puri smiled broadly.

  'Did I say something funny?' asked Scott.

  'Apologies, sir. But if we are talking about the same individua
l - and I believe he is familiar to me - he was known as "Fawda". Means he had buckteeth sticking out.'

  'Oh. Right. Well now that you come to mention it, he did have buckteeth - very prominent ones, in fact. Funny. I just imagined the nickname had to do with something sinister - like digging graves . . . Now where was I?'

  'You had identified two individuals, sir.'

  'Right. So I kept an eye on Messrs Alam and Sengar. Discreet surveillance. And where should they both turn up during the World Cup last year? Faheem Khan's hotel room in Hyde Park.'

 

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