Murder in moonlit square, p.7
Murder in Moonlit Square, page 7
With some difficulty, Sub-Inspector Kumar contorted his frown into an imitation of a smile. ‘Nahi, I am happy to speak to Mr Mehta directly. No need for red tape. Now I must get back to the manhunt.’
As soon as the policeman had gone, Avtar looked over to Aarushi at the reception desk. She held up her smartphone and smiled. ‘That’s a wrap.’
Avtar sat down heavily. ‘I need an ad break.’
Sister Agatha was not used to this pressure either. ‘The alley behind the hotel may no longer be so secluded,’ she warned. ‘If the police deter reporters at the front, they may try round the back.’
Avtar’s shoulders slumped. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to go up.’
CHAPTER 16
Avtar pushed open the door at the top of the metal steps and stepped into the light. He held the door for Sister Agatha to follow.
It had only occurred to him when they had reached the final steep steps that they might present a physical challenge to her, or worse, be somehow inappropriate for a person of her status. But he hadn’t known how to raise the issue, and anyway, here they both were, dignity intact, if breathing a little heavier.
A hotel roof is neither beautiful nor quiet. This one was littered with water tanks, pipes and myriad vents and air conditioning units. There were a couple of wooden chairs well past their prime, with a tin of paint between them – well stocked, he noticed, with cigarette butts. Over the hum and rattle of the air conditioners, the constant blaring and roar of the city below seemed muted, with only occasional shouts and sirens breaking through.
Sister Agatha had ignored the chairs. Probably wise, thought Avtar. She was, as he’d noticed before, a tall lady and there was no knowing how much of her there was under those robes. The chairs, on the other hand, looked – and he checked by wiggling the back of one of them – altogether far too yielding. In fact, he realised too late, chairs should not wiggle at all.
Sister Agatha turned in surprise to see him brandishing part of the chair.
‘Firewood,’ he said.
Behind him remained one chair, and a pile of wood that looked as though it might once have been the other half of a pair. Sister Agatha politely said nothing and surveyed the roofscape of old Delhi.
So many buildings thrown up so close together, thought Avtar, like stubby fingers reaching for the sky. Or baby birds still in the nest, beaks up and open, calling to be fed. He gestured with part of the broken chair, as if sweeping aside the curtain on a theatre stage.
‘My city.’ I should really come up here more often, he thought, to appreciate the privilege of living in Delhi, rather than skulking in the alley to smoke. Which reminded him. He took out his pack of Classics and offered it to Sister Agatha. She hesitated.
‘I always give away the rest of the packet to somebody else after I have a cigarette, to ensure I ration myself to one a day. Helps me resist temptation.’ She said a quick silent prayer for forgiveness. ‘But in the circumstances, I think I will accept your kind offer.’
They lit up and smoked, and contemplated the city some more. That was one of the pleasures of smoking, thought Avtar – active idleness. You were not standing around doing nothing like a lazy lafanga propping up the wall. You were engaged in an activity, which happened to involve turning down the volume of the day’s noise and doing almost nothing.
The haveli shape of the hotel meant it rose five storeys around a central rectangular courtyard, which served as secure outdoor space, shielded from the noise, dust and eyes of the city. A smaller even more protected courtyard lay further within, providing extra seclusion for the women of the household in years gone by.
It was one of the grand old mansions of the city, a princely townhouse which had been abandoned, and then rescued and refurbished by Avtar’s family. In the days before air conditioning, the courtyard had provided shade and space for natural air circulation, cooling the rooms.
Havelis were too big and too expensive to maintain as residences these days. Most in Delhi had been demolished and their sites redeveloped. Or been carved up into many smaller dwellings. Some remained as shells storing building materials, their decorative exteriors gradually crumbling into the dust around them. But given sufficient investment, and sensitive renovation, havelis had the potential to be reborn as boutique hotels for the more discerning customer seeking an alternative to modern blocks of concrete, steel and glass. And if the plumbing was sometimes a little idiosyncratic, well – that was part of the unique character of a historic building.
The courtyard was the perfect place to stage exclusive events, or to act as overflow for the hotel restaurant. The inside walls rose level by level with open-sided grand walkways, filigree ornamentation arching over doors and windows, with shining varnished wooden doors and window shutters. The building’s outer walls were grey with the dust and grime of the city, but inside was grace and beauty.
Guests trod gleaming marble floors. Every surface that could be polished shone. On each floor was a bank of old-style bells, numbered for each room. Before modern phones had been installed in each room, guests would pull a cord to ring the bell for their room, summoning the floor attendant who sat poised beneath. These days the bells were only for appearances. Avtar felt they added a touch of old-world charm – like an English stately home. Guests could imagine they were staying at Downton Abbey, deep in the heart of Delhi.
Avtar dreamed of transforming the Delhi Haveli Hotel into a glamorous destination with dances, art exhibitions, fashion shows and musical performances in the courtyard. And cocktail receptions at a roof bar, as prestigious guests drank in the sun setting over Delhi’s historic rooftops.
Someday. After he had cleared away the broken chairs. And hidden the vents, pipes and other sections of hotel intestine snaking across the roof. Someday it would be glorious. In the meantime, the vista was in place.
‘Quite a view of your city from up here,’ said Sister Agatha.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘and if it wasn’t for the smog, you could see as far as…’ Where was the furthest he had seen? He could hardly remember a time before the smog. ‘Once upon a time, on clear nights, we would be lit by the moon. Giving everything extra delicacy and elegance. Which is where the name of this neighbourhood comes from. Chandni Chowk. Moonlit square. Chandni for the silver light of the moon. Chowk is a square or place. These days…’ He shrugged. No need to spell out Delhi’s current state of pollution.
‘Allow me to give you the tour,’ he offered. ‘Many people arrive here by train.’ He waved the piece of chair in the vague directions of the old and new Delhi railway stations. Rail travellers might not have the elite status of airport jetsetters, but they were more realistic about what to expect from a hotel in such a crowded, busy city. After emerging from the station into the roiling mass of pedestrians, entreating taxis and auto rickshaws, beggars and street vendors, street children and sadhus, they were always happy to reach Avtar’s special oasis of calm.
He sighed loudly. Talk of the railway station reminded him of the hotel’s extra responsibilities on a Tuesday. Amidst all the fuss with the police, he’d forgotten to instruct the cook to prepare the usual extra consignment of food. Each Tuesday the hotel supplied meals to a nearby children’s hostel. Yet another group of people depending on him to keep the hotel open.
The children housed, fed and educated by the local Aashray Bachchon Ka Ghar hostel were boys found living on the street. Many arrived in the city via the central railway stations, alone and knowing no one, and were soon reduced to scavenging scraps to sell and eat. Or much worse fates Avtar did not like to think about.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Sister Agatha.
‘Just something I overlooked with all this distraction,’ explained Avtar. ‘But it’s probably fine.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes.’ He forced a smile. It probably would be fine. Udham the cook had been feeding the boys week in, week out. He wouldn’t need reminding. Though Avtar would check, just in case. The kitchen staff had been questioned by the police along with everyone else. They’d been shaken up, but the cook had jollied them along. Avtar reminded himself to share some words of reassurance with Udham, but in the meantime… ‘I should continue your bird’s-eye tour.’
Using the piece of wood, he pointed out the well-known sites in the area. ‘Over there, the Red Fort. Lal Qila. One of the tourist must-sees of Delhi. A Mughal fortress built by Shah Jahan when he made Delhi his capital. Much plundered since, then smashed by the Britishers, who later restored some of it. Huge place.’ He turned. ‘The Chandni Chowk Road, with the Gurudwara Sis Ganj. The music there is sublime.’
Sister Agatha smiled, so he kept going.
‘In this part of Delhi, you can buy anything,’ said Avtar. The narrow lanes were renowned for bargains and wholesale outlets, tightly packed together in bunches according to what the shops sold. ‘Electronics, lighting, camera equipment. Over there, gold, silver, with bookshops beyond…’
He noticed he had piqued Sister Agatha’s interest. ‘Mainly stationery, academic textbooks and technical guides,’ he explained. ‘And fabric, clothing – saris in such rich colours, menswear, metals, perfumes, spices, nuts. Each lane has its own speciality. Wedding bangles and jewellery. Mithai for the sweet tooth. Gali Paranthe Wali for food, especially parathas – but only on special occasions.’ He patted his stomach.
‘I’m a big fan of your country’s parathas,’ said Sister Agatha. ‘Your aloo parathas rival the potato bread of my childhood.’ She glanced over her shoulder conspiratorially. ‘In fact, I think aloo parathas are even better. Though don’t tell anyone in Ireland I spoke such heresy. They won’t let me back into the country.’
Avtar laughed with pleasure at the thought of someone new discovering one of his nation’s crowning achievements. ‘Then you must try their different parathas with gobi, mooli, paneer, banana, badaam, kaju, rabri…’ He opened his hands as he listed them, as if transported by the thought of such delights.
‘Parathas filled with cauliflower or radish I already know. Delicious. Even with cheese,’ Sister Agatha reassured him. ‘But bananas, almonds, cashew nuts… they all sound a bit… experimental.’
‘And all deep-fried,’ added Avtar, closing his eyes momentarily in pleasure at the prospect of such oily tastiness.
‘You skipped a bit,’ said Sister Agatha, interrupting his rapture. ‘What’s over there?’
‘I don’t know that part so well,’ said Avtar. ‘It’s a Muslim area. There is a very historic mosque. One of the biggest in India. The Jama Masjid. Also built by Shah Jahan. He built the Taj Mahal too. Very farsighted when it came to tourism in India.’
‘Perhaps that district over there is where our missing pilgrim has got to,’ suggested Sister Agatha.
‘Good luck to the police finding anyone there,’ said Avtar.
‘The poor man,’ sighed Sister Agatha. ‘So far from home.’
Avtar looked at her curiously. She had an unusual way of thinking about things. Maybe thinking of herself, too, far from her home in England. Not England, he remembered. Ireland. Her accent sounded different from the English he’d met. Perhaps Ireland was different too. There were so many small countries in Europe, it was hard to keep track of them. A bit like inside India, he supposed, with new states being split off and created all the time.
‘We’re all far from home in Delhi,’ he said, ‘and all at home at the same time.’
Sister Agatha carefully stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I don’t understand. Isn’t this your city?’
‘Yes, but my family – my parents, their parents – are from Punjab. We had to come.’
‘Had to?’ asked Sister Agatha.
‘Our part of Punjab is now in Pakistan. They had to get out quickly. Leave everything behind. Start again here.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘They were lucky. They got out alive. My parents met in a refugee camp.’
Sister Agatha said nothing. Just listened.
‘It’s not unusual. Ask anyone in Delhi and you’ll likely hear a similar story. Hardly anyone is from here originally.’ Avtar frowned in thought. ‘Although our missing pilgrim might be one of the few people who actually is from Delhi. He could be old enough to have been one of the Muslims fleeing the other way in 1947.’
‘It sounds like a terrible time,’ said Sister Agatha.
‘Partition,’ said Avtar, as if it were an evil, dirty word. ‘Foreigners drew a line on a map and threw our lives into chaos. The dividing line still runs through people’s hearts and minds.’
He took a deep breath, moving on from the subject. ‘But having your homeland split apart is not something you’ll ever have to worry about.’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ murmured Sister Agatha, and then to Avtar, ‘If you’re right, perhaps the poor man just wanted to see his old home one more time?’
‘How would he ever find it?’ asked Avtar. ‘Delhi is constantly changing. New roads, new buildings, new metro and new names for everything. The present fades into the past very quickly here.’
CHAPTER 17
Sister Agatha stepped right up to the edge of the roof and peered over. A long way down. It reminded her of herself and her childhood friends daring each other to stand ever closer to the cliff edge back home, the giant ocean waves crashing into the rock below, misting them in sea spray. She had never backed down, despite being terrified inside. Now she shivered slightly and stepped back.
Home, thought Sister Agatha. A long way away in time and distance. And where was it anyway at this stage in her life? The family farm? She was a visitor if she ever went back there now. Her brother’s eldest had it all in hand these days. The convent where she’d joined? They’d always have a place for her – but it was hardly home. Her old friends? Happy to see her, but she had become a curiosity to them and gone so long. Out of the loop. And no children or grandchildren, of course. India? She’d moved around so much – been moved around – she wasn’t sure if she had many homes or none.
Perhaps home is in these quiet moments of contemplation, Lord, when You and I connect. She silently apologised that it often happened while she held a lit cigarette. Perhaps it was the presence of goodness, or at least people trying to be good. Which felt like the same thing, she thought.
‘The gentleman who died was a long way from home,’ she said. ‘Have you looked in his room?’
‘Oh no,’ said Avtar. ‘The police searched it of course, and checked for fingerprints. I don’t think they found anything unusual. No missing pilgrim hiding in the wardrobe. The room had already been tidied by housekeeping anyway. Mr Prasad had left it in quite a mess. Clothes thrown everywhere, mattress askew, drawers pulled out. We want guests to feel at home here, but some take it too far.’
Sister Agatha couldn’t imagine behaving that way. Since she’d joined the religious life, her possessions had been strictly limited. And the smooth running of convent life depended on everyone pulling their weight – not relying on others to pick up after them. But then another thought struck her. ‘Perhaps the deceased gentleman was not an untidy guest after all,’ she said. ‘Perhaps the mess in his room was created by somebody else, post mortem.’
‘The killer, you mean,’ said Avtar, ‘searching for something to steal. Perhaps the motive was robbery?’
‘If you’re right,’ said Sister Agatha, slowly thinking it through, ‘that would mean the murderer did not immediately leave the hotel after killing Mr Prasad, but stayed to ransack his room. It does not feel like the behaviour of an elderly pilgrim from Pakistan.’
‘Who else could it be?’ said Avtar. He hadn’t meant it as a question, and he suddenly did not want to think about possible answers. They stood in silence for a while.
‘Getting back to your beautiful neighbourhood of Chandni Chowk,’ said Sister Agatha more brightly, looking towards where Avtar had said Muslims lived. ‘Do you know your way around over there?’
‘No, I’d be lost. And maybe not welcome either.’
She waited for him to elaborate.
‘In the past it probably would have been fine, but these days…’ He trailed off in that vague way she’d noticed people did more often ‘these days’ when conversation strayed anywhere potentially political. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. ‘You might fit in more easily in your outfit, Sister. It does bear a resemblance to a burka.’
Does it indeed? thought Sister Agatha. She looked again towards the Muslim district. Where to begin? So many lanes and alleys. So many people. All she had was a name and a meagre description: old man, beard, pilgrim’s robes. It wasn’t much. And that assumed he hadn’t been cunning enough to trim his facial hair or change clothes. But she couldn’t simply do nothing. Not when the livelihood and freedom of this good man, Avtar Mehta, were hanging by a thread. It was her responsibility to act.
To meddle, said the other half of her conscience. To poke your nose in where it does not belong. To do my duty, she countered. To act with the grace our religious order stands for. You’ll have no difficulty obtaining the approval of the boss then, will you? she asked herself. Sister Tarcisius is a busy woman and trusts me implicitly, she responded, so there’s no need to bother her about this. Hmmph! Convenient, said her killjoy self, sarcastically, and then retired, defeated. Internal debate completed, she turned again to Avtar.
‘I’ll go so,’ she said. ‘Too late for it today. I have prayers to be catching up on back at the convent this evening. But first thing tomorrow, school permitting.’ She strode off towards the exit.
Avtar paled. ‘I will of course accompany you,’ he said to her back as she disappeared through the door.
