by Tarquin Hall
'Aaah, so you're the one,' she said in Hindi when Puri introduced himself. 'Satish said you'd be coming around.' The voice went with the face: forthright, strong.
'I was waiting to speak with you, actually, madam,' said Puri.
Her son was still speaking on the phone. Something about a ram.
'What is you want to know?' asked Jasmeet Bhatia. She hadn't taken off her sunglasses. Puri found it disconcerting not being able to see her eyes.
'During the dinner were you seated the entire time?' he asked in Hindi.
'Of course not,' came back the answer. 'I got up three or four times.'
'While Faheem Khan was away from the table?'
'I've no idea.' She gave a shrug. 'Look, I got up to talk to my friends - Harnam Talwar, Anita Bhangu. What's the big deal?' She gestured to her son to hurry up.
'Had you had any prior meetings with Faheem Khan?'
'I met him the night before.'
'You didn't know him or have any dealings with him in Pakistan?'
'I've not set foot in Pakistan since 1947!'
'You didn't know him when you were young?'
'Nothing like that,' Jasmeet Bhatia said with a wave of her hand.
Her son hung up the phone and shot the detective a playful smile. 'A handful, isn't she?' he said. 'But I'm pretty sure she didn't do it.'
Bhatia made it plain that the interview was at an end by walking round his desk and offering the detective his hand. 'Hey, listen, it's been fun,' he said. 'I'm going to have some complimentary tickets for the next ICT match sent over to you. I'd like for you to be my guest.'
Puri thanked him and left the office.
'Pretty sure she didn't do it,' he repeated to himself as he waited for the elevator. Had Bhatia been serious? Or was that American humour?
The inevitable call from the Chief's office came twenty minutes later as Puri was making his way back into south Delhi.
'He wants to see you in his office - no delay,' said his assistant.
'I've been suddenly taken ill, actually. High temperature is there. I'll pay Sir a visit day after. My sincerest apologies and greetings.'
The cat was out of the bag.
As for the dog, Dr Pathak's laboratory called at midday to say that the animal had indeed been poisoned with Aconitem. The technician was sure it had been ingested.
After eating a couple of kathi rolls at Khan Chacha's followed by a dessert of diet pills, the detective turned stalker. He'd learned that Mrs Anita Bhangu, who'd sat on the right of Faheem Khan, always went for a walk in Lodhi Gardens after lunch, and so he loitered in the Lodhi Road car park until she arrived in her modest Maruti hatchback.
Carrying a bulging plastic bag, she set off along the edge of the lake and the battlements surrounding Sikander Lodhi's tomb. For a lady in her mid-seventies, she walked at a sprightly pace, calling out occasionally to the malis busy tending the flower beds, all of whom recognised her.
A couple of mutts, both wearing warm winter jackets, came bounding towards her, tails wagging, and she greeted them by name - 'Indu! Kush!' Their yaps and whimpers attracted the attention of more hounds and soon she was surrounded by a pack, all jumping up excitedly.
'Yes, yes, coming, my lovelies,' said Mrs Bhangu. 'Hungry today, no?'
She stopped under a peepul tree and, from the bag, took out four bowls. Placing them on the ground, she filled each to the brim with dry dog food. The animals immediately tucked in.
'Quite a feast,' commented Puri as he stopped on the path nearby. 'No wonder they're looking so healthy actually!'
'Pritika here got into a bad fight the other day. I had to bring the vet and he gave her injections. Seems to be recovering, thank God.'
Imported food, vets, winter coats - these dogs were better cared for than a lot of Delhi's servants, Puri reflected.
'You feed them every day, is it?' he asked.
'We take turns - myself and my husband. He comes early morning for his daily walk.'
'He's a dog lover, also?'
'Loves all animals. He's patron of many animal welfare societies in fact. A society should be judged on the way it looks after its animals - that's what he always says.'
'I could not agree more, madam,' said Puri, who in truth was all for rounding up Delhi's street dogs and putting them down on the grounds that one of them had once taken a chunk out of his right calf muscle. 'Such a shame about that dog at Kotla the other day!' he added.
'Oh I couldn't watch! I was actually there you know, in the stadium, attending the match. Imagine trying to shoot a poor defenceless animal! What were they thinking?'
The detective wished Mrs Bhangu a good day and walked on, mentally crossing her and her husband off his list of prime suspects.
He was down to eight suspects.
Puri soon had a brief, particularly unpleasant exchange over the phone with one of them: Neetika Sahini, the woman who described herself as a 'public relations' consultant but was in fact a lobbyist representing the interests of India's major corporate houses. She had sat five places away from Faheem Khan at the table.
'Is this some kind of stoopid joke or what?' she asked when Puri introduced himself. 'Mintoo, is that you?'
'Madam, allow me to assure you when it comes to such grave matters Vish Puri is always serious,' said the detective.
'Gaaaad! Who is this? Santa Claus? I've got nothing to say.'
'Five minutes total is required, only.'
'Bloody bullshit, yaar! I went through this yesterday with the police. I don't know anything.'
'I've come to know you sat next to the deceased at a cricket match in Dubai last year.'
This was fresh information supplied by Tubelight.
'So what, yaar! I was a guest at a lunch and I got stuck next to that lecherous creep. His eyes were practically glued to my cleavage! Got what he deserved if you ask me. Now read my lips, OK: I didn't kill that decrepit old Paki. I was talking to J.K. Shrivastav the whole time. He's confirmed that to the police.'
'During the meal you saw anyone put anything in Khan's food?'
'Are you stoopid or what? Think I'm going to tell you that?'
The line went dead.
No wonder she's thrice divorced, Puri thought.
Less than ten minutes later, Nariman Rathore, one of the most powerful lawyers in India, called.
'With regard to the tragic events at the Delhi Durbar Hotel this past Sunday evening, my client, Ms Neetika Sahini, has made a full statement to the police and has nothing further to add,' he said. 'Any effort on your part to contact her again will be regarded as an infringement of her privacy.'
Acting through an intermediary whom Puri had worked for in the past, the detective was able to arrange an appointment for five o'clock with multimillionaire Ram Dogra and his wife.
The Prince of Polyester, whose original fortune was made supplying dirt-cheap garments to the Indian masses, made no secret of the opulence to which he and his family had become accustomed. The entrance to his property, an enormous plot in the quiet, leafy and prohibitively exclusive area between Prithviraj Road and Lodhi Gardens, was not understated. Spotlights highlighted the brass plaques on the gateposts, the name DOGRA spelt out in an elaborate, calligraphic script, like a Fifth Avenue brand name. The grand front gates were made of dark Burmese teak. An illuminated fountain played on the strip of lawn along the front of the wall.
The contemporary bungalow and tropical gardens beyond could easily have been mistaken for a five star boutique hotel and spa. This was borne out by the sitting room to which Puri was led by a liveried servant. A perfect square of raw-silk-upholstered couches occupied the centre ground. Side tables held Venetian vases overflowing with an array of waxy, exotic lilies.
Ram Dogra's choice of double-breasted jacket, silk cravat and Italian loafers seemed no less affected to Puri. The eighty-year-old came from humble Ludhiana stock after all, his gnarled, pitted features suggestive of a lifetime of battle.
'Mr Puri, your reputati
on precedes you,' he said, his voice deep, commanding, yet cordial. 'Swati speaks highly of you. Called you a man of great integrity.' Swati Saxena was the former client who'd arranged the interview.
'A great honour to meet you, sir,' responded the detective, markedly deferential in the presence of such a powerful individual. 'I'm most grateful to you for taking the time to see me, actually.'
Another man entered the sitting room. He was dressed in the badge of the male Indian assistant-cum-secretary: white open-collar shirt with breast pocket accommodating a row of pens. Without a word, he sat down on a chair next to the closed door, notebook and pen at the ready.
'Madam would be joining us, sir?' asked the detective.
'She's got a headache,' said Dogra as he sat on one of the couches and motioned for Puri to do the same. 'She should be along in a few minutes. We can start without her. Before we do, Mr Puri, I want you to know that I had a call this afternoon from the Delhi Chief of Police.'
'I see, sir.'
'He urged me not to speak with you. Called you a "meddler".'
'We two do not always see eye to eye exactly,' responded the detective, wondering where Dogra was going with this.
'Yes, well, I decided to ignore his advice for the simple reason that my wife and I have nothing to hide,' he stated.
'Most admirable of you, sir.'
Dogra checked his watch. 'Now, I can give you ten minutes,' he said.
'Ten minutes will be more than enough, sir,' responded Puri as if it was all a matter of mere routine. He took out notebook and pen. 'I wanted to ask you about the seating arrangement at the dinner, actually. Your good wife sat three places from the victim and you yourself to her right. Tell me: that was by choice, sir?'
'Not at all,' answered Dogra. 'We had no say in the matter.'
'You're part owner of the Delhi team, is it not so?'
'I'm the majority shareholder. I own fifty-one per cent. But I don't get involved with the catering arrangements.'
Puri made a note of this. Then he said, 'Please be good enough to tell me what all happened from the time you entered the banquet hall.'
Dogra described how he and his wife had spent fifteen, maybe twenty minutes talking with his 'old friend' Cabinet Secretary J.K. Shrivastav and then sat down at the table. One by one, the other guests had joined them. The food had been served straight away.
'You remember Faheem Khan leaving the table, sir?' asked Puri.
'Yes I do. I remember thinking his food was getting cold.'
'You saw any person standing there - behind his chair, that is?'
'I don't believe so, but then a few of us did get up from the table. I remember Kamran Khan excusing himself for a while. At one point, Mrs Talwar came and stood behind Mrs Bhangu and they talked. My wife paid a visit to the ladies' room after she'd finished eating. I went to the WC myself. I believe Satish Bhatia was gone for a short while as well.'
'During Faheem Khan's absence, sir?'
'Afterwards, I believe,' said Dogra, but he didn't sound sure and looked up at the ceiling again as if, somehow, the moulded plaster might hold the answer. 'To tell you the truth, Mr Puri, I can't remember.'
'Anyone else approached the table - aside from the waiters, that is?'
'Not while we were eating, no.'
'It is my understanding you spilt your drink, sir?'
'That's right. I knocked it over.'
'When exactly?'
'Oh that's hard to say.'
'When Faheem Khan was absent?'
'Yes, I suppose it was.'
'Must have distracted everyone.'
'I suppose so. Some of it spilled on Gunjan Bhangu, I'm embarrassed to say. But most got on to my trousers. That was when I visited the WC. To dry it off.'
The detective made a note of this and then followed up with, 'You'd been at the function the preceding evening, sir?'
'For the championship inauguration drinks? Yes, I was there for an hour or so.'
'And Madam?'
'She accompanied me, of course.'
'You met Faheem Khan, is it?'
'Briefly.'
'What did you talk about?'
'We welcomed him to India. Asked him if he'd had a good journey.' Dogra checked his Rolex. 'You've got another few minutes, Mr Puri.'
'Just I wanted to ask you about your business dealings with Pakistan.'
Dogra gave a gesture that suggested he'd anticipated the question. 'My company imports various commodities from there,' he answered.
'And you've visited Pakistan on no less than seven occasions.'
'You would not have found that information on my company's website,' answered the multimillionaire with a touch of pique.
'No, sir, I've other sources, actually.'
'Well, your other sources are correct, Mr Puri. But before you ask, I've no connection whatsoever with the Khans.'
'It is my understanding Madam was born in Pakistan, sir.'
Before Dogra could answer, the door opened and his wife appeared. She was petite and elegant. Her grey silk sari was immaculately tied, a diamond brooch pinned to one shoulder. Her hair, though white and thin enough to show the scalp beneath, was professionally coiffed.
'Aah, there you are.' Dogra sent her a sympathetic smile. 'How's your head?'
'Much better, thank you. The maid gave me maalish.'
She came and sat next to her husband, arranging the folds of her silk sari about her.
'Mr Puri here was just asking me where you were born,' explained Dogra as she sized him up.
'Oh, that's easy,' she said, her tone almost festive. 'My birthplace was Lahore. More years ago than I care to remember.'
'You came to India in 1947 is it, madam?' asked Puri.
'Along with my mother, yes. I'm afraid my other relatives were lost to us along the way.'
'There is any connection between your family and the Khans?'
'None. I believe they hail from Rawalpindi.'
The detective went back over much of the same ground he had covered with Ram Dogra and found her recollection of events tallied. There was one detail Mrs Dogra was able to add, however. Ten minutes before Faheem Khan died, she'd seen Kamran Khan heading towards the hotel's emergency exit. 'Why you didn't inform the police, madam?' asked Puri, sure that this detail had not appeared in the transcript of her police interview.
'It must have slipped my mind,' she answered.
TEN
THERE WAS NO mistaking the change that had come over Puri's childhood neighbourhood of Punjabi Bagh in west Delhi since the late 1990s when the effects of 'liberalisation' - the loosening of the noose that had been strangling the Indian economy - had started to take effect.
In the 'good old bad old days,' as Puri referred to them, you had to wait years to get a telephone connection. And when, at long last, the engineers turned up and you could make a call from the luxury of your own living room (as opposed to a grubby PCO/STD booth), there was always a crossed line, or rather several crossed lines, and quite often a delayed echo too, so it sounded as if you were speaking into a wishing well along with a group of strangers.
Once, when Puri was fifteen, he'd overheard Asha Singh's mum at number twenty-five oblique three telling Mrs Bhullar about how her husband was having 'erectile dysfunctioning'. Believing that she might have been referring to some kind of DIY problem, he had asked his mother for clarification. On another occasion, Puri's father, Om Chander Puri, then still on the force, had overheard a known thief discussing plans with an accomplice to knock over Ambar Jewellery Emporium and, consequently, caught them in the act.
Buying a car had been a similarly laborious process. The waiting list was as long as the Ramayana. The choice of models had been limited - either an Ambassador or an Indian Fiat - and they came in any colour as long as it was white. Air conditioning was almost unheard of and most models came with fans fixed to the dashboard. Side mirrors were considered additional extras.
As for luxury goods, they were smuggled int
o the country in the bulging suitcases of Non-Resident Indian relatives from the US and the UK. Their arrival was always accompanied by a ritual unpacking. French make-up, diabetes medicine and the odd laptop computer would be shared out like rations during a time of war. The younger generation would then go and try on their blue jeans; their elders, meanwhile, would criticise Western cultural values while tucking into rare delicacies like KitKat bars.