by Khan, Vaseem
‘Special Delivery from Delhi. The courier is waiting downstairs for your signature. Apparently, whatever is in there is for your eyes only.’
In the bookshop, she found a youngish man with darting eyes and teeth too big for his mouth, exhibiting all the signs of an unpleasant encounter with her father.
Having signed for the delivery, she returned upstairs, picked up the crate from the dining table, took it to her bedroom, and set it down on the end of her bed.
The courier had handed her a letter, which she now opened.
It was from the Deputy Home Minister, K.P. Tilak. In it he explained that he was sending her copies of the original files that had been provided to Sir James Herriot as part of his Partition crimes investigation. He urged her to secrecy, asking her not to discuss the contents with anyone unless absolutely necessary.
She went back into the living room, found a screwdriver, then returned and opened the crate.
There were sixty-four files in total, thin manila folders wrapped in string, each holding a sheaf of papers. On the front of each folder was written the name of the state from which the complaint had originated. She quickly sorted them in this way, making piles on the bed. There were twenty-eight states – a number ratified by the new constitution – and the bed was soon covered. Some states had a single complaint, others, such as Punjab, Bombay and West Bengal, had multiple.
There was a lot of material to cover, she realised. It would take days for her to go through every document, particularly as she wasn’t sure exactly what it was she was searching for. Herriot had looked through these files. It was probable that he had stored his copies in the safe in his study, and that they were now missing. Certainly, they had not been found anywhere else at Laburnum House. She wondered, again, at the ashes she had discovered in the fireplace in Herriot’s study. Had Herriot burned the documents? Why?
She considered beginning on the documents right away but a wave of exhaustion dissuaded her. Better to start the following day with a clear head.
She didn’t want to risk missing anything.
She showered, changed into a pair of Oriental pyjamas that Dr Aziz had gifted her, then joined her father as Krishna served them dinner, a south Indian chicken curry.
‘My bowels have turned to concrete,’ remarked Sam, biting down on a roti. ‘Aziz recommended papaya. An excellent laxative, by all accounts.’
‘Thank you for sharing, Papa,’ she said. She could sense a stiffness in him. No doubt he was still upset about the fact that she was investigating the death of an Englishman, and the comment she had made about her mother’s passing.
‘So, are you going to tell me what was in the crate?’ he eventually asked.
‘I’m afraid I cannot.’
His moustache twitched, but he said nothing. She thought he might ask something further but he did not.
They ate the rest of their meal in silence.
Chapter 9
3 January 1950
She was delayed the next morning by a visit to the vet – Akbar was in need of his annual check-up and injections.
The tomcat fought her tooth and nail. It was always the same, a spitting, hissing ordeal, bundling him into the jeep, driving the twenty minutes to the clinic in Cuffe Parade, getting him from the vehicle to the surgery. And yet, as soon as he was with the vet, a sandy-haired and ever-smiling Scotswoman by the name of Philippa Macallister, he became as docile as a kitten. It was almost flirtatious, the way he acted around her.
Macallister – who insisted on being called Pippa – gave Akbar the once-over, pronounced a clean bill of health, then advanced upon the tomcat with a syringe. Akbar flattened his ears and backed away.
‘Don’t be such a baby,’ muttered Persis and held him down as the jabs were delivered.
‘You look like you could do with one of these,’ said Macallister, waving the syringe at Persis. ‘Case getting you down?’
They chatted for a while.
Persis had always found Macallister to be a forthright and discreet woman. Her love of Bombay’s fauna had prevented her from leaving the country, and she was a popular advocate for the city’s animal rights organisations. She was also politically astute.
She listened politely, then said, ‘It’s a lot of responsibility, isn’t it? Being a woman in a man’s world?’
Persis said nothing.
‘Do you know what the secret is?’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Pretend that it isn’t their world. Pretend that it’s yours.’
An hour later, Persis walked into Malabar House to discover a subdued atmosphere.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked George Fernandes, who was typing laboriously with one finger on a battered Remington. She knew that both the ‘a’ and the ‘e’ were missing from the ancient machine, a handicap that made Fernandes’s reports excruciating to read.
‘ADC Shukla is here,’ he replied without looking up. ‘With Ravi Patnagar. You had better go in.’
She dumped the Partition files she had brought from home into the drawer of her desk, locked it carefully, then headed to Roshan Seth’s office where she found Additional Deputy Commissioner of Police Amit Shukla seated before Seth’s desk, urbanely drinking tea. Patnagar and Seth were standing, facing each other, hackles raised like alley dogs.
‘Ah,’ said Shukla, ‘Inspector Wadia. Good of you to join us. We were just discussing the case.’
She blinked, momentarily unsure of how to respond. She had never met ADC Shukla before – he was one of a raft of senior officers who acted as assistants to Bombay’s commissioner of police, all men, all indistinguishable from one another. Portly and balding, he had the face of a favourite uncle or one of those sleepy-eyed Tibetan mastiffs. Yet there was no doubt as to the power he wielded. The fact that even Ravi Patnagar, head of the state CID, was forced to stand in his presence underlined this point. She resisted the urge to salute. ‘Sir, if I had known you were coming, I would have been here earlier.’
‘I sense an accusation, Inspector,’ said Shukla jovially. ‘Rest assured, there is nothing sinister to it. I simply decided to drop by on a whim.’
Persis doubted this. From what little she had heard of him, ADC Shukla was a man of considerable heft within the force, a tactician who had not only survived the post-independence cull within the government services, but positively thrived. Two years earlier the city and state police had merged. The new commissioner, Ranjan ‘Tiger’ Shroff, Bombay’s first non-white commissioner of police, had set the tone by surrounding himself with men possessed of a similar cutthroat dynamism. If Shukla’s rise had been meteoric, in its wake lay innumerable bodies.
‘Roshan tells me that you have thrown yourself wholeheartedly into the investigation.’
‘We are pursuing the matter with alacrity, sir.’
‘Excellent!’ His lidded eyes rested for a moment on the teacup in his hand. ‘Of course, I expect that a woman who sailed through the academy will appreciate the delicate balancing act that such a case imposes upon us.’
‘Sir?’
He set down the cup. ‘Persis, it has been two years since we achieved independence, yet it is only on January 26th that the constitution of India will finally come into effect, a document prepared by Indians, for Indians. It is only then that we truly become masters of our own destiny.’ He paused. ‘Three hundred million Indians, Persis. Three hundred million unique identities, all locked into the belief that an age of enlightenment is upon us. Cows will talk, hunger will be banished, evil vanquished. Secularism will become the new religion in a nation plagued by millions of gods.’ He grimaced. ‘When these miracles do not materialise, anarchy will follow. And we, the Indian Police Service, are tasked with the job of maintaining law and order during this turbulent period in our history. How can we possibly achieve such a thing? Given that there are so few of us?’
She exchanged looks with Seth, who shook his head. ‘Let silence be thy watchword’: a favourite saying of his in the presence of authority.
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��No?’ said Shukla. ‘The answer, as perverse as it might seem, is that we must look to the British. How did they, with only a handful of individuals, rule over our multitudes?’ He slapped the desk with unexpected ferocity. ‘The British understood that not everyone is equal. A society is composed of those who lead and those who follow.’
Persis began to see the shape of Shukla’s point. He was taking her by the hand and leading her around the perfumed gardens of his argument.
‘I have been told that you have been making house calls upon some of the most prominent people in the city.’
She felt a rush of anger. ‘We have been making enquiries with those who were present at Sir James’s home on the night of his death.’
‘I understand that, Inspector,’ said Shukla patiently. ‘But did you stop to think how it reflects upon the service if you and your men turn up on the doorsteps of such luminaries armed with pitchforks?’
‘We must be free to pursue our enquiries as we see fit,’ said Persis stiffly.
‘Freedom is an illusion, Persis. None of us are truly free.’ He relented, offering her a smile. ‘Sometimes, we best serve by reverting to first principles. For instance, in my experience, the murder of a wealthy, powerful individual is usually traceable to a disgruntled party of lowly rank.’
She heard herself say, ‘I shall take that on board. Sir.’
‘Excellent!’ He slapped both thighs and bounced to his feet to face her. ‘Many in the IPS rolled their eyes when they heard that a female had been accepted into the academy. I was not one of them. You are a credit to the women of this country. The eyes of India are upon you.’
‘Sir, if I may—’ began Patnagar, only to be halted by an upheld hand from the ADC.
‘Ravi, we must allow Persis the opportunity to follow through on what she has begun. A fair crack of the whip, as Sir James himself might say.’
‘But—’
‘This is the will of the commissioner,’ said Shukla, allowing a trace of irritation to enter his tone.
Patnagar subsided, glancing at Seth with undisguised hostility.
The ADC turned to Persis. ‘Good luck, Inspector. I am sure that our paths will cross again.’
After they had left, Seth collapsed into his seat, pulled a bottle from his desk and poured himself a Scotch. ‘Still certain that you don’t want one?’
‘Why were they here? I thought you said they wanted nothing to do with this case?’
‘No,’ said Seth. ‘What I said was that they did not want the risks associated with this case. What did you expect? You’re charging around the city like a bull in a china shop. Someone kicked up a stink.’
‘He did not need to come to Malabar House to make his point.’
‘Have you ever seen a tiger marking out his territory? Shukla is our tiger. And if we are not careful he will devour us all.’
‘I still don’t understand. If he’s so concerned, why doesn’t he just give the case to Patnagar?’
‘He doesn’t want to give it to Patnagar. If he gives it to Patnagar and Patnagar fails then the mess is on Shukla’s shoes. But if he leaves it with you and you fail, he has just enough distance to wash his hands of us.’
Persis sighed. It was barely ten and she could already feel the exhaustion washing through her. Ever since the academy, she had heard rumours of the internal politics that debilitated the Indian Police Service. Yet it was one thing to know of such a thing in the abstract, quite another to confront the reality.
‘Not that Patnagar will let it go,’ said Seth gloomily. ‘I’m afraid you’ve made an enemy there.’
‘But I never said a word to the man!’
‘Patnagar is a traditionalist. His views on women in the service could curdle milk. He considers your very existence a personal affront. How do you think it will look if you actually succeed?
‘There is something I don’t understand, however,’ he continued, holding his glass under his chin. ‘How in the hell did they know about the details of your investigation? Patnagar had a lot to say before you showed up. They had it all, every move you’ve made, what you plan to do next. I suspect, Inspector, that you have a rat on your team.’
Persis emerged from Seth’s office and made a beeline for Oberoi’s desk. He was leaning back in his chair with his boots up, grinning smugly at the ceiling as he smoked a cigarette. She felt the fury rising, boiling her brain like a kettle until she felt the top of her skull might blow off. Just as she reached him, Constable Subramanium arrived to intercept her.
‘Madam,’ he said, ‘there is a man here to see you.’
She wrenched her furious gaze from the back of Oberoi’s lacquered head. ‘Who?’
Subramanium handed her an embossed card.
Aalam Channa
Senior Reporter
The Indian Chronicle
Her eyes unfocused and fell to the framed quote on her desk: ‘The commissioner’s experiment in catapulting a woman into the service might well mirror our fledgling republic’s forward-thinking ideals, but what he has failed to consider is that in temperament, intelligence and moral fibre, the female of the species is, and always will be, inferior to the male.’ Channa was the author of that particular gem. ‘Tell him I am not here.’
‘I am afraid it is too late for that,’ said Subramanium apologetically.
‘Then tell him I am indisposed,’ she snapped.
Subramanium opened his mouth, then thought better of it. He pirouetted smartly on his heels and headed for the door.
The interruption had taken the wind out of her sails.
She fell into her chair and stared at a point between Oberoi’s shoulder blades, slowly incinerating him with her gaze. What had possessed the man to go behind her back? He was a prime example of the unthinking misogyny that continued to hold sway over Indian society. It was at times like this that she felt most acutely the loneliness of her pedestal. It was all very well being the nation’s first female IPS officer; but the fact was that she was still the country’s only female IPS officer.
A shadow fell over her. She turned to face a tall, graceful man dressed in a white Nehru suit. A pencil moustache graced his upper lip and his wavy black hair shone lustrously. Subramanium trailed behind him, anxiously waving his hands in the air.
‘Inspector Wadia.’ Aalam Channa held out a hand. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’
Persis sprang to her feet. ‘I believe I sent word that I was indisposed.’
‘This will only take a minute, Inspector. May I call you Persis?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You may not.’
Channa smiled, unfazed. ‘The Chronicle is one of the nation’s leading dailies. Our readership stretches from coast to coast, from Kashmir to Kanyakumari. Sir James’s murder has captured the public imagination, as, indeed, have you, Inspector. India’s first female detective, heading up the decade’s first major case. Surely, you can appreciate that such a concatenation of circumstances might be newsworthy?’
Channa spoke with a cultured, pleasant accent. He had something of the nawab about him, a princeling of the hinterlands. ‘A short interview, Inspector, that is all I am asking. We do not even have to discuss the material facts of the case, not if you do not wish it. My readers are as interested in you as they are in the investigation.’
The man was incorrigible. Persis’s mouth flapped open, but Channa quickly moved on before she could respond. ‘We have a unique opportunity here. Should you wish it, the Chronicle might become an ally. Not only during this investigation, but for your subsequent adventures on the force. Think of it, Inspector. We would make a heroine of you. Imagine all those you might inspire around the country. Young girls seeking a place in the new republic. Is that such a bad thing?’
She blinked, suddenly unsure of herself. Channa had a way of simplifying a complex argument that made it seem beguiling . . .
‘An investigation cannot be conducted in the public eye.’
‘Then do not give me details. My reade
rs will be happy with broad strokes. The key is for us to convince them that the Indian Chronicle has a special insight into the goings-on at Malabar House. With us on your side, everything that you do will be portrayed in the most favourable light possible. Surely that is worth something?’
‘I thought the press was meant to be objective.’
For an instant, the smile died from his eyes. She saw in that moment something else, a snake-like blink, a predator thwarted of his prey.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Persis firmly. ‘I have nothing to say at this time. And now I must return to my work. Constable Subramanium will see you out.’
Channa shadowboxed with his own confusion, as if not quite believing that his charm offensive had failed. She supposed that with his good looks and demure manner he did not often find his advances rebuffed. As he walked away, he looked back over his shoulder. ‘What is it about the press that so frightens you, Inspector?’
She did not bother to answer.
Resuming her seat, she reached for her notes.
Moments later, Oberoi rushed by her, headed for the door. Prodded by an instinctive churning of suspicion, she rose from her desk and followed him out.
She hung just inside the main doors and observed him as he crossed the road and caught up with Channa as the journalist stepped into a waiting tonga. A conversation ensued and then Channa reached into his jacket and handed Oberoi a card.
A flash of heat pulsed at her temples. It was all she could do to stop herself from charging across the street and putting her hands around his throat. Instead, she calmed herself, turned and headed back downstairs.
The next few hours vanished into nothingness. More interviews with those who had been present at Herriot’s party came in. She added the information to her notes.
She compiled a list of tasks for the day.
At 2 p.m. she was scheduled to meet Eve Gatsby, the American whom Herriot’s housekeeper had suggested might be a close female acquaintance. Might she be the mysterious woman with whom Herriot had had intercourse in his study just prior to his death?