Dead in a Mumbai Minute (7 page)

‘I’ve deduced that by now.’

‘When I’m back, I’ll sit with the two of you.’

‘Aren’t you back now?’

‘This is only a pitstop. I won’t be in office for at least another three days. I request you to put up with Adlakha for the time being – and not mention to anyone that you saw me.’

I looked at Shayak’s exhausted, lined face and felt a pang of remorse for carrying on about my teething troubles, when he clearly had so much more going on.

‘The apartment is lovely. They really did a great job fixing it up. Thanks.’

‘Glad you approve.’

‘Archana lives here as well?’

‘We have a number of apartments for employees here.’

‘On what basis are they allocated?’

‘Various parameters.’

Was this a good time to bring up the security cameras in the hallway? I couldn’t resist.

‘I was a little concerned by the CCTVs here.’

‘It is unfortunately an occupational hazard.’

‘So every employee’s flat is monitored?’

‘Those who have housing privileges are those with sensitive information.’

‘Trying to sniff out double agents?’

‘I know you have a Cold War fetish, but it is nothing as dramatic as that. The information you may come into possession of makes you a potential target. We like to keep you safe.’

‘Tomato,
tomahto.’

‘Your theory implies a lack of trust. The truth is that these measures are for your own protection. Come over to my place and you’ll see the same thing.’

Shayak got up and walked around the tiny kitchenette, crowding me, reminding me that breathing had always been a little difficult with him this close.

‘Will this oven be enough for your prolific baking habit?’ he asked.

‘It’s perfect. I honestly did not expect so much.’

‘Good, I will wait for the first batch of cookies.’ He drained his cup abruptly and got up, leaving me to regret pushing so hard. ‘Thanks for the coffee. I’ll see you next week.’

I got up.

‘Don’t bother,’ he said. ‘I’ll let myself out.’

It was my first weekend on the job. With the no-surveillance equipment policy on the Puri case, I had no choice but to continue my stakeout. If Poonam was having an affair, there was no reason she couldn’t tryst on a Saturday.

But Saturday too came and went without significant change. She stayed in for most of the morning. She lunched with a couple of gal pals, went for a movie and spent the evening at home again.

I had spotted Pratap Puri leaving with luggage the previous evening, but I couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t make a quick return, so I kept a safe distance from the house.

When I saw one of the Puri drivers hanging about outside the main gate, I thought Vinod might be able to help.

‘Can you go and ask him a few questions?’ I asked.

‘Of course, ma’am,’ he said.

‘His boss’ name is Pratap Puri, and I need to know when he will be returning to town.’

‘Anything else, ma’am?’

‘If you can find out what Mrs Puri’s plans are for the weekend, it would be great. But why don’t you see where the conversation takes you?’

I watched as Vinod walked across the street. I could tell that this wasn’t the first time he had been sent on such an errand. He approached the driver, lighting up a cigarette, and started talking. In about five minutes, he was back. He got into the car and pulled out into traffic.

‘To make it look natural.’

‘Yes, good,’ I said.

‘He said Mr Puri is out of town for the next three days. And that Mrs Puri has given him leave tomorrow, though when his boss is out of town he usually does his wife’s duty.’

‘She has another driver.’

‘She has given him an off too.’

‘From when?’

‘Tonight. Both drivers.’

‘Excellent work, Vinod.’ It sounded to me as though Poonam was going somewhere she didn’t want anyone else to know about.

The next morning, I rose with the sun. I wasn’t sure when – or if – Poonam would be heading out, but I didn’t want to lose her. I set to work with supplies from office that I had brought home.

The hardest thing for me to hide was the corkscrew curls. I stood in front of the mirror and pulled my hair back as tightly as I could, tying it into a bun, smoothing it down with styling product. Then I opened a box that held the key to my disguise: a high-quality prosthetic nose. I put it on, gluing on the side with liquid latex. It transformed my face drastically but, since this wasn’t the movies and I would quite possibly come within close distance of Poonam, I put on a pair of glasses so my excess of camouflaging make-up didn’t give me away. There. Not even my mother would recognize me in a crowded room.

I had instructed Vinod to take a car other than the one we had been using, just in case Poonam had noticed us before, and meet me near the house. I hailed an auto and got there on my own. The added precautions may not have been necessary but I didn’t want to take any chances. If I was right, Poonam was up to something; if I got too close to her, there was always the chance that she’d remember me later, and it was early days yet in the investigation.

I got to the Puri residence when the sun was still low. Both cars were in the driveway. Vinod was parked at a distance in an SUV and he scrutinized me with care before cracking a smile. He then raised two fingers to his forehead in a salute.

The guard wasn’t around, and I peered through the gate again and saw movement on the upper floor. A curtain had shifted.

I went to the car.

‘Morning, Vinod.’

‘Ma’am, excellent disguise. No one will know you.’

‘You knew me.’

‘Only because it had to be you, ma’am. And you are so tall.’

‘In this city of actresses and supermodels, I am still tall?’

He laughed. ‘Where are we going today, ma’am?’

‘As usual, I don’t know. We’ll see.’

Our wait was shorter than I had hoped – just a couple of hours after we arrived, Poonam left. This time, her destination was an inconspicuous coffee shop in Bandra. She parked her car and I followed her in. It was deserted aside from us. Poonam took a window table and I grabbed the one beside it, choosing a seat from where she could see mainly my profile.

A waiter came by to hand me a menu. I glanced through it. Some breakfast – or a lot of breakfast – would not go amiss; Belgian waffles with maple syrup and fresh fruit sounded about right, with a cup of coffee.

I heard Poonam order an egg-white omelette and multigrain bread and almost lost my nerve. But I stuck by my choice. I had been virtuous enough since coming to Mumbai, with the baking down to zero and incessant stalking making sandwiches de rigueur. My former food-writer self was telling me it was time for something that didn’t taste like cardboard.

A few minutes later, the door opened and a man walked in. He was about 5’6” or so, slightly thick around the middle, hairline beginning to recede, clean-shaven. Average in every way. He carried a slim black case in his right hand.

The chitchat that followed puzzled me: it was strained, nervous even, and yet they persisted. Could this be a first date? It seemed most unlikely – if Poonam, an attractive woman herself, was cheating on her good-looking, obscenely wealthy husband, why would she pick this guy?

I worked my way through the waffles as I listened to what was being said. The only thing that was suspicious about it was the fact that these two people, who seemed to have little of interest to say and didn’t seem to be work associates or relatives, were having breakfast together at all.

I wished I could take a photo. But in the confined space of the café, I couldn’t use my cell phone camera without attracting notice. And anything more had been forbidden by the client.

Then the man left – without the case he had brought in. Poonam then called for the cheque, as did I.

I cursed my luck – and my gluttony. I should have followed Poonam’s date but by the time the bill came, he was long gone. So I stayed with Poonam, and much of the rest of the stakeout proved as tiresome as the past week. After a few errands, she headed back home and we waited at our spot a little down the road. Vinod snoozed in the front seat as I read, sourced bhel and made a few calls. Aside from a servant who went out to buy vegetables there was no activity at all, until about 4.30 pm when Pratap came home.

‘Wasn’t he supposed to be gone for longer?’ I asked.

‘That’s what the driver told me,’ said Vinod.

And then again there was stillness till 5.30 pm when one of the drivers arrived.

Vinod sat up in surprise. ‘But they’d been given the day off.’

‘Maybe, with Pratap coming home earlier than expected, he called one of them in,’ I said.

Half an hour later, their Audi exited the gate, and we followed. We were within sight of the Gateway of India when they pulled into a distinguished old colonial building.

‘Do you know what that is, Vinod?’

‘That’s the Mumbai Yacht Club, ma’am.’

I had heard of the institution, one of the most prestigious in the city. To be a member meant that you were seriously old money or that you had newly arrived, and that you either owned or aspired to own a boat at some point in the future. I’d bet Shayak was a member.

‘There is a problem, ma’am,’ said Vinod.

‘Tell me.’

‘The security here is so high that I won’t be able to park on the street.’

‘Then I’ll get out.’

‘I’ll wait somewhere close.’

‘I’ll call if I need you. Thank you.’

I’d had it easy so far, lounging around in the comfort of a car. But stakeouts weren’t designed for comfort. At least, I told myself, I had one of the best views in the city.

I sat on the wall near the Gateway. It was a relatively cool evening, and tourists were out in numbers. I was hungry, and I stopped for my first vada-pav since moving to town. I knew the Mumbai classic deep-fried aloo burger was much maligned in some quarters but it satisfied all my criteria for comfort food, and comfort was what I was in search of.

As I took my first bite, Pratap and Poonam left the club premises on foot. They crossed the road and seemed to be headed towards me!

I hoped my disguise was decent enough to fool Pratap, since he might recognize me from the nightclub. I tried to play it cool by focusing all my attention on my snack. But they walked right by me, down a little gangway to a speedboat. The attendant took them to what looked like the biggest yacht in the harbour, statelier than Shayak’s. I watched them sail away into the one place I wasn’t equipped to follow them – the vast expanse of the Arabian Sea.

I was fast asleep when my phone rang. I looked at my glow-in-the-dark alarm clock – 6.05 am – before groping around for my phone. It was Shayak.

‘Hello,’ I said. The crack in my voice was solely because of the hour.

‘How fast can you get ready?’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘Twenty minutes?’

‘Fine. Meet me outside your building.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘I’ll brief you on the way.’

‘What am I getting ready for?’

‘A murder investigation.’

My heart pounded in my chest, waking me right up.

‘And I hope you don’t get seasick,’ he said abruptly, before hanging up.

I did, but I’d only find that out an hour later, on my way to Kimaaya’s island.

FOUR

F
or the first time in my life, there was a dead body at my feet.

I had come close to death before – a few family funerals; Pathology 101 in college – but never in the course of an investigation.

This, as Kimaaya Kapoor had told us back at the house, was Ashutosh Dhingre, her one-time agent, now a Bollywood nobody. How had he fallen from such heights? She only said something vague about disagreements over the kinds of roles he was getting for her. It was all years ago, she had said, and she couldn’t even remember the last time they had met.

‘What do you see?’ Shayak asked.

Even now he was in training mode. It was just the two of us, with minutes, maybe a half hour, to go before the police arrived.

I saw a man, throat split open, on his back.

I struggled for composure. ‘Male, middle-aged, possibly early fifties. Wearing grey trousers and a white-and-blue striped shirt, both intact though the shirt has a large amount of blood on it. Dyed hair, moustache au naturel. Looks to be about 5’7”, 75 kg. Shards of broken glass around his head, quite a bit of blood. There is a jagged, penetrating wound to his neck, caused by something sharp. It looks like this could be the cause of death and the source of much of the blood. There is another visible wound to the head, to the right temple.’

‘What about the glass?’

‘It is a translucent green and quite thick, it has shattered unevenly and there seem to be pieces of a label which could probably be read off some of the larger fragments.’

‘And?’

I bent over. ‘It definitely looks like a red wine bottle – I can see some traces of it on the glass. There doesn’t seem to be any serious amount of foreign liquid mixed in with the blood, so I would say it was either completely or mostly empty when the blow was delivered.’

‘You feel the bottle was the weapon?’