Seduced by Murder
Authors: Saurbh Katyal
Bluejay Books Pvt. Ltd
.
A-8/76, Ist Floor
Sector 16, Rohini
Delhi 110 085
First published by
Bluejay Books Pvt. Ltd. in 2014
Copyright © Saurbh Katyal, 2014
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publishers.
I
was glad it was raining. Glad, because it gave me a reason for staring out of the window of my office and appear preoccupied, while the poor lady wept her heart out.
She was crying because I had just given her proof of her husband’s affair – the photographs lying on the table, of her husband and her best friend, in various compromising positions. I prepared myself for the uncomfortable task of saying something reassuring.
I began with a feeble attempt to pacify her. “Mrs Singh, would you like some water?”
The hitherto inaudible sobs rose to an embarrassingly high pitch.
“That bitch Seema! I will kill her! We used to play tennis together. How could she do this to me?” she said in between sobs. To my mind, the answer was simple. Seema accomplished this by being twenty kilos lighter. Nevertheless, I maintained my silence and nodded sympathetically.
The rain ceased, forcing me to stop staring outside. I glanced at my watch and realised it had been over half an hour since I had shown her the pictures. It was time to bring up the subject of the remainder of my fee. As per the contract, seventy five percent of my fee would be payable on submitting
conclusive evidence. This was my tenth extramarital affair case since I had become a detective, and each time I was confounded by the seemingly simple task of bringing up the subject of my fee with some poor lady who had just discovered the infidelity of her spouse.
At the same time, I had learned from previous experience that if the disturbed wife left the office without paying, I might as well kiss my fee goodbye. The actions of an emotional woman were only as predictable as the actions of the Indian cricket team during a series.
I got up from my chair and walked towards her. I stood behind her, whispered a few words of empathy, and placed my hands on her shoulder. The closing act was always crucial. If successful, it would get me an endorsement at her next kitty party or aerobics class. Nothing spectacular, but something modest like, “It was the most trying time of my life! Thank God for Vishal Bajaj, the detective I hired. I don’t know what I would have done without him. He’s the man for all jobs – discreet, charming, and cute too!” I used my fingers to massage her shoulders. Being hasty while discussing the fee was always a mistake from a repeat-business perspective. Cheating-husband jobs were my core competency. My jealous competitors had given me the sobriquet
toy boy
. The more crass ones called me a gigolo.
Last week, a lady had walked into Eagle Eye Detective Agency just across the street, and asked for me. They tried to inveigle her into appointing them but it was Vishal Bajaj whom she wanted (and whom she got). Such occurrences were common, and my competitors retaliated by spreading rumours about my promiscuity.
But they were just that – rumours. On principle, I never got cosy with any of my female clients. There were times when the ladies themselves tried to seduce me but I maintained a strict client-detective relationship. I saw my job as an honourable one. I was like an alchemist, transforming women with low self-esteem into beings filled with hope and optimism; counselling rich, middle aged, jilted wives to cope with the fact that they were no longer attractive to their husbands.
I felt her shoulders relax under my fingers. She had finally stopped sobbing. I said softly, “Mrs Singh, there is the subject of my pending fee.”
I wished she would pay and leave. The post-mortem of a case usually involves a deluge of emotions and, as I often say to my second-in-command, Pranay, “Too many emotions give me loose motions.”
Mrs Singh was silent for a few seconds.
Then she asked, “Do you think I am attractive, Vishal?”
Uh-oh.
“Of course, Mrs Singh! I find you quite attractive. Your husband is unfortunate not to cherish a lady like you.”
“Let’s go out somewhere and spend time together. I am very lonely.”
The conviction with which she said that terrorised me. The expression on my face must have been evident because she started sobbing again.
“You don’t like me, do you? I am old and ugly.”
“No, no, Mrs Singh, you are definitely a very attractive lady,” I mumbled. “But you are confused and hurt right now, and I would never take advantage of you in this state.
“You are a woman of character, and you will have to be strong and clear-headed to get through this. I know your
husband is concerned about his social standing; I recommend that you confront him with the pictures and demand an explanation ….”
I was glad I had worn a clean shirt because Mrs Singh had started sobbing again, using my shirt as a tissue.
Mrs Singh had wrapped her arms around my waist. She had stopped sobbing, and I waited for her to release me. I was acutely aware of her ample breasts resting against my thighs. The heat from her breasts was transmitting to Junior’s territory. I panicked, and gently tried to unclasp her hands to break the embrace, but she held on. It was too late. Junior sprung up in interest. I felt Mrs Singh stiffen as she felt the movement in my trousers.
I tried to discourage Junior by thinking of something repulsive. Rats – big, thick jungle rats. I had seen that on Discovery Channel. But Junior extended to his full length. I pushed her shoulders back so that her breasts would stop ironing my trousers. She leaned back and looked up at me coyly.
I glanced down, and my eyes were drawn to her cleavage. I could see two milky globes clasped in a black brassiere. I tore my eyes away and smiled weakly. She smiled coquettishly, her big brown eyes reflecting her anticipation, her ripe-red lips opening slightly.
I was beet red with embarrassment, and said quickly, “You want to let go of me? I think I need a glass of water.”
She held on and asked, “You’re sure you don’t want to come with me for a drink?”
I feigned confusion at her words, and raised my eyebrows in a
what is going on
gesture. She responded by indicating
whatever Junior wants
. Junior interpreted the signal faster
than my brain could, and threatened to disown me if I let this opportunity go away. I admonished him, reminding him of the golden principle of Hunt Detective Agency,
never breed with the feed
.
I forcibly unclasped her wrists, went and sat on my chair, and let a few awkward seconds pass.
She took the initiative. “I guess there is no use crying over spilt milk. We had ten years of a happy married life. And men and dogs will always go where the meat is.”
I smiled to accentuate my dimples.
“I am glad you are taking this in the right spirit. Life goes on. Take him, or dump him. The power is within you, Mrs Singh.”
“Call me Preeti, please.”
She definitely didn’t feel old and ugly now. It took me five minutes to cajole Preeti into leaving my office. I promised to keep in touch, and escorted her out of my cabin into the able hands of Aarti, my secretary. Aarti had been the victim of an abusive marriage, and had divorced her husband after two long, torturous years. I returned to my cabin with a sigh of relief.
It was only ten minutes after Mrs Singh had left that I realised I had not collected the balance fee. I was too insouciant to regret that. It was noon, and I decided to call it a day.
I went to my desk and took out a half empty bottle of Scotch from the drawer. All that stuff you read about detectives having microphones, guns, and other fancy gadgets in the drawers, is strictly for the cows. Just like the eyewash they show in the movies – detectives leading a life of action and adventure. The only action we ever get is killing mosquitoes during an all-night watch. Our preferred choice of weapon is
a spray can of mosquito repellent, and a steel flask of whisky. Most detectives die young, not from gunshots, but because of a pickled liver, or malaria. It’s a shitty life, but you get to be your own boss.
I poured a generous amount of Scotch into the coffee mug. I went to stand by the window, letting the ice melt in the Scotch. The phone rang. Credit card companies didn’t call on Sunday afternoon. It had to be a potential client. I kept the glass on the window sill, and picked it up after a few rings and said sharply, “Hello, Hunt Detective Agency.”
There was a pause. New clients often find themselves at a loss for words when they actually hear a detective’s voice. Some of them hang up. I spoke encouragingly, “This is Vishal. You can talk to me. Confidentiality assured.”
“Hello, Vishal?” she said.
Immediately, I knew it was her. Back from the past to haunt me.
When we had just broken up, or rather, when she had left me for another man, I used to often wonder what my reaction would be if life ever brought us together again. Now, three years later, I knew the answer. All that crap about time being a great healer is bullshit. Time heals nothing. Well, acne maybe.
