Murder in moonlit square, p.22
Murder in Moonlit Square, page 22
Avtar would feel betrayed, she knew. That’s why she had not consulted him. But she hoped he would understand when he listened to her voicemail. She also hoped she could trust Sub-Inspector Kumar not to throw them all in jail. But the sub-inspector also had a secret. Surely that would curb any impulsive behaviour on his part. He was bound to at least listen to her.
She looked round the small office. The door seemed to have closed of its own accord behind her. Not quite fully closed. She was not snooping like last night. Just waiting. There was a chair, but it was good to give her old legs a stretch. To walk softly back and forth. She heard voices from behind a second door to the side. Belligerent-sounding. Cross. She walked back and forth a little more, lingering by the side door. Not to eavesdrop. Just to give her old legs a rest. Not really listening.
But she couldn’t help hearing familiar voices. Inspector Patil. He sounds mean, she thought, even when he’s not shouting. And Sub-Inspector Kumar is in there too. Makes sense. As junior officer, his room is attached to his superior’s office. Well within shouting or summoning distance. I should knock, she thought. I should knock, open the door, walk right in and tell them both together. Get it over with. That’s what I came here for. No point in shilly-shallying.
Sister Agatha braced herself. She raised her hand to knock. Then she heard Inspector Patil raise his voice. ‘And that blasted nun!’
Sister Agatha lowered her hand. I’ll wait for a more opportune moment, she thought.
‘It’s very simple, Kumar,’ she heard him bark. ‘Find this terrorist.’
‘Find him, that we can do, sir,’ replied Sub-Inspector Kumar. ‘But we still do not know for sure if he is a terrorist, a killer, or even completely innocent. A pilgrim fallen ill. An old man lost.’
‘You’re not listening, Kumar. As of now, our fugitive is a terrorist. He murdered a prominent man. We hunt him like he’s a terrorist. When we find him, we treat him as a terrorist. I’m under pressure to get results. Every four hours they call me asking if we’ve got him. The RAW chief himself will ring me at any moment. The media also demands action. The public deserves a result. We will give it to them. I do not want to hear that our missing man has been shot dead in an encounter with RAW.’
‘Of course not, sir.’
‘He’s mine. He must be our kill.’
Sister Agatha gulped. She heard footsteps approaching along the polished corridor. She froze, unable to tear herself away from where she was listening. She was about to be caught and exposed.
There was a polite one-two knock on the door to the corridor. The door to Sub-Inspector Kumar’s office began to slowly open further. Sister Agatha held her breath. There was nowhere for her to hide.
Then Inspector Patil let rip. ‘And if you do not find this man!’ he shouted.
The door to the corridor stopped moving. Whoever was on the other side muttered about it sounding like a bad time, and walked away again. She breathed out.
Inspector Patil had stopped shouting, but sounded even more sinister as he lowered his voice. ‘I do not demand the impossible. Even your best efforts may fail. Maybe RAW or the CBI will get there first. I won’t like it, but I can live with it. But if any of those unfortunate things come to pass, you have a contingency plan.’
Sister Agatha had a feeling she was not going to like Inspector Patil’s contingency plan.
‘It’s quite simple. Bring me the terrorist, dead or alive, or bring me the hotel owner. The mastermind behind this plot. The traitor aiding the fugitive. Ideally we’d nab that nun for something too, but I’m not greedy.’
‘On what evidence, sir?’ asked Sub-Inspector Kumar. ‘There’s no evidence the hotel was involved.’
‘Your job is to find the evidence, Sub-Inspector Kumar. And a police officer with your rank and experience should know that evidence can always be found.’
Sister Agatha listened intently. Sub-Inspector Kumar said nothing.
‘Delhi is a very desirable posting,’ continued Inspector Patil, ‘but not everyone is suited for the pace here. Remote outposts also need policing. Everyone is deployed where they will fit most effectively.’
Sister Agatha stepped back softly from the door. She was unable to listen anymore, not for risk of discovery, but because she felt physically repulsed by what she had heard. All thought of confession had disappeared. Her conscience and her mind were clear again. They had to stay a step ahead of the police. It sounded like the conversation next door was winding down.
She scanned the office. Filing cabinets. Shelves. Notices and posters on the wall. Desk drawers. So much paperwork to wade through. She had no idea where the information she needed was hidden. Nor any idea what it might be. There was no time to look. No time to think. At any moment one or both of the policemen might catch her red-handed. Or anyone could walk in from the corridor.
Sister Agatha prayed hard. Not for the answer. She did not believe in a God who always gave handouts and easy solutions. She prayed for the ability to think clearly at this moment of crisis. She assessed her situation. She was in Sub-Inspector Kumar’s office, deep inside Chandni Chowk police station. A place he would consider to be private and secure. He was an organised man. Information relevant to his current case would be close to hand, not locked away.
She looked down at the desk. A page of faces looked back up at her. Mugshots. The surly, shifty faces of men wanted by the authorities. She picked up the page to examine it more closely. Each portrait had a name and crime printed below. She didn’t recognise any name or face. A dead end.
Then she noticed another face staring up at her. It had been under the mugshots. This face she did recognise. She had seen the real-life version yesterday at the hotel. This was their missing pilgrim. She dropped the mugshots onto the desk and lifted the large black and white photograph. It was so much more recent than the picture the media had been using. Much more benign-looking. Nicer. Gentler. And much more like the man everyone was looking for. She heard a ‘Yes, sir,’ from the next room, and a chair scrape backwards. She dived across the room, her heart jackhammering, and grabbed the handle of the door to the corridor. She managed to pull open the door just as Sub-Inspector Kumar walked in.
He stopped dead. ‘What are you doing in my office?’
She doubled over, hanging on to the door handle, gasping for breath. She was not pretending. Her dive across the room really had taken it out of her.
She waved up at him as her heart rate gradually slowed. ‘Very sorry,’ she rasped. ‘Very rude of me to burst in. Is this door sticky? I knocked, and then I tried the handle, and then I pushed.’ She breathed deeply. ‘My humble apologies for intruding. I was waiting outside for a long time. I was scared I’d miss you.’ She held her heart. One hand inside her scapular, the other on top. The hand under the long piece of cloth clutched the portrait of Abdul Khan, the fugitive all India was hunting.
Sub-Inspector Kumar looked at her like she’d stolen the milk from his tea and come back for the sugar.
He thinks I’m lying, she thought. But I’m not. Not quite. But if he searches me now, I’ll be in very big trouble. Sister Tarcisius will be so disappointed. The school will close. The convent will be shamed. And for Avtar and the old man, there will be no reprieve. And I will not be there for my girls when they need me.
The policeman was still staring at her. He’s not falling for my helpless old lady routine, she realised.
‘Who’s that, Kumar?’ The voice of Inspector Patil from next door. Sounding impatient.
Sub-Inspector Kumar shook his head slowly at her, as if in regret. ‘Sir, Sister Agatha Murphy from the Amazing Grace Convent has arrived.’
Inspector Patil’s head popped through the doorway, as if her presence had to be seen to be believed. He smiled so broadly his cheeks bulged and his eyes disappeared. Sister Agatha felt like a fly about to be snatched from the air by a dart-tongued toad.
‘So kind of you to join us, madam,’ leered Inspector Patil, as if they were at the best table in the Gymkhana Club. And then to his junior: ‘Have you gone through the formalities?’
‘No, sir. The Sister has just arrived.’
‘Then fetch a female constable to search her. Everything will be done one hundred per cent by the book.’
CHAPTER 56
Avtar could usually dodge the worst of the notorious Delhi congestion by simply going in to work late. He was always available by phone to his staff – though they knew not to disturb him for trivial reasons. And he could divert booking calls to his mobile if necessary. It meant he could wake, wash and breakfast in a civilised manner.
He would remain at the hotel until 7 o’clock on weekdays to brief the night shift, though the hospitality trade was not about predictable hours – a plumbing emergency or a distressed guest could not simply be put on hold until the following day.
But the message from Sister Agatha this morning had shattered his routine. As was his habit, he had checked his phone on waking, only to realise he had failed to charge it overnight. He plugged it in and enjoyed a little while longer under the covers.
His phone screen lit up and he saw a voicemail notification. He listened, then jumped out of bed, tripped on his phone charger cable, banged his shin on his bedside table, knocked over a chair and woke the whole house. He called his driver Harish to come immediately, then washed standing at the sink, dressed and left without eating.
They hit the early rush hour. Avtar needed to intercept Sister Agatha before that headstrong woman let her naive integrity lead them both to disaster. She may have been in India for a long time, but she still has a lot to learn about how things work here, he thought. And no time to learn it now. If she gets to the police station before me it’ll be too late for us all.
At each knock on the car side window, Avtar hoped for rescue – that one of the heavily made-up beauties offering a blessing in exchange for cash, or the street vendors selling bundles of counterfeit paperbacks, would instead whisper details of an escape route. That one of them would take his hand and say, ‘Don’t worry, ji, we have it all arranged.’ And he would walk away and disappear. But there was no way out. Nowhere to hide if the whole world was against you. And he was not a man to desert a friend.
The stop-start traffic jerked forward. Commuting by car in Delhi seemed like madness, but the air quality outside was so poor. He appreciated the deadly irony that by hiding from it inside his moving metal box, he was contributing to making it worse.
‘Not long now, ji,’ Harish reassured him from the driver’s seat. He was a man of few words. The perfect driver – calm, capable, assured and quiet. An oasis of low key between the babble of his multi-generational home and the demands of his hotel guests.
Harish usually dropped him a short walk from the Delhi Haveli Hotel. The lanes were too narrow for any sane driver. Avtar had considered switching to a motorbike so he could commute door to door, but he liked to do business en route. Many bikers and cyclists carried on phone conversations with seeming ease while threading through traffic. It was not for Avtar, though. Driving was hard enough already, and the constant noise must surely render most conversations pointless.
Also, he was not ashamed to admit that he valued the air conditioning inside his car. Delhi was usually hot and smoggy. He let his driver handle the journey while he handled business or bookings. If there was nothing pressing, he would listen to a podcast – something to improve himself or his knowledge of commerce. Learning does not have to stop when school finishes, he always thought.
At last, after an age and far too soon, Harish quietly informed him they had reached the drop-off point. Avtar would be quicker on foot from here. He wanted to run, but forced himself not to. Running into a police station might get him shot. As he strode past shopkeepers raising the metal grilles of their shops or restocking their display cabinets, he tried and failed to come up with a clever plan. He saluted the guard on the gate with a wave and went to walk through.
‘Halt!’
Avtar stopped. Swore silently. Turned and smiled.
‘What is your business?’ asked the police station guard.
None of yours, thought Avtar. ‘Sub-Inspector Kumar,’ said Avtar.
The guard nodded, carry on.
No sign of Sister Agatha in the reception area. Maybe he’d got here first. A very round man was talking to the desk constable. Avtar walked up behind him. They continued their discussion. This is no good, thought Avtar. He peered round the bulk in front, trying to catch the desk constable’s eye.
She looked up, irritated. ‘Please wait.’ She pointed to a row of chairs. Avtar sighed and sat. And waited. He shifted in his seat as the large round shopkeeper paid his fine, signed his form, engaged in endless pointless chat about the changing neighbourhood and the health of acquaintances he and the constable had in common.
Eventually, after seemingly interminable goodbyes, blimp man left. Avtar rose. Not yet, the constable warned, waving him back down. Still some more pieces of paper to be shuffled. Despite his agitation, Avtar began to slip into a doze. After another age, the constable picked up a wooden foot and banged it on the desk, the sound jerking Avtar back to consciousness.
She beckoned him forward. ‘Please state your business.’
Avtar explained who he was, who he was here to see, that no, he did not have an appointment, but that Sub-Inspector Kumar would be keen to see him.
‘Achha, he is a popular man this morning,’ said the constable. ‘You are his second early caller.’ Avtar tried not to gasp. ‘There was a madam who arrived only just before you. Is she here on the same business?’
‘Was the madam an elderly lady, a nun?’ asked Avtar.
The constable thought, then nodded.
‘We are here on the same business. May I join her?’
The constable gave him directions. ‘You should have said. I would have sent you through immediately.’
Avtar walked quickly to the stairs, leaving the desk constable slowly shaking her head at the low intelligence of the people she had to deal with. No wonder the world was the way it was. Avtar heard the wooden foot hit the desk and ‘Next.’
The door to Sub-Inspector Kumar’s office was closed. There was yet another row of hard wooden chairs outside. But no nun. Avtar approached the door. Then backed off. He sat down. Then immediately stood up again. He knocked. ‘Not now!’ someone shouted from inside.
He moved to the next door, which according to the nameplate belonged to Inspector Patil. Avtar gulped. Well, if Sub-Inspector Kumar was too busy to see him, he would go over his head. He knocked.
‘I told you,’ shouted the same voice. ‘Not now.’ But then the door cracked open, and Avtar found himself looking at a very surprised Sub-Inspector Kumar.
‘Is that the female constable for the search?’ asked the voice Avtar now realised belonged to Inspector Patil.
‘No, sir,’ said the sub-inspector over his shoulder.
‘Then get rid of them,’ said the inspector.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sub-Inspector Kumar quietly, opening the door fully and inviting Avtar inside. Avtar’s heart sank. He had succeeded in finding Sister Agatha, but they were both now deep inside the lion’s den, with the very men scheming to bring him down and crush his hotel into the dust.
Inspector Patil clapped his hands together in delight. ‘This day gets better and better. Now we have both of you here, let us see if we can clear up this terrorist murder business once and for all.’
Avtar looked to Sister Agatha. She was not her usual confident self. Her eyes bore into him, sending some sort of message. What has she told them? he thought. How can I get us out of here?
‘It’s very simple,’ said Inspector Patil. ‘The madam has told us everything. I hope you also are willing to cooperate. And that your story matches hers, in every detail.’
CHAPTER 57
Sister Agatha groaned loudly. Everyone turned to look at her. She clutched her heart. Staggered.
‘Sister Agatha!’ cried Avtar, starting towards her. Inspector Patil grabbed his arm, stopping him. The policeman gave her a sour look. She could tell he was unimpressed with her theatrics.
‘Get her a chair, Kumar,’ said the inspector.
She held on to the chair he offered her as if it were the only thing keeping her alive, then sat heavily, groaning once more. ‘This is very stressful for an elderly lady like me,’ she protested.
‘Perhaps madam would like a Filmfare Award for her performance?’ asked Inspector Patil. ‘Enough of this nonsense. Please rest quietly while Mr Mehta confesses what he came here to say.’
Avtar stood frozen in front of them, the two policemen studying his body language for signs of deceit. Sister Agatha silently berated herself. It was her fault that they were both in the clutches of the police, and her fault that Avtar was about to confirm what he must presume she had already revealed. But she realised they still had a glimmer of hope. The policemen should have kept her and Avtar apart. Instead, she had a tiny chance of communicating with her friend.
She stared at Avtar until he looked back, then almost imperceptibly shook her head. She needed to convey to him that she had not given anything away. He frowned slightly, not understanding. She shook her head a little more obviously.
Inspector Patil glanced at her. ‘What is this you are signalling?’
‘Oh, nahi, Inspector,’ she said, no fooling with his rank this time. ‘I am only shaking my head at the frightened rabbit. You will have to give him chai before he recovers his wits enough to speak.’
Inspector Patil slapped his desk, sending papers flying. ‘No! There will be no chai until you speak.’
