Story teller

Inspector Rashid fought an unfamiliar sense of anxiety as he stood in his garden looking straight at the snow-capped mountains. The skies had cleared up after the rain last night, and the golden sunlight made everything it touched glisten. The trees stood majestically, flaunting their dark green leaves but the inspector didn’t notice any of this, everything seemed blurry to him. He didn’t even hear the calls of the blue-winged Magpies which resonated across the valley nor the sound of the cool breeze that whispered soothingly as it swirled between the mountains. The only thing he heard was the voice of the District Magistrate, it was as if a cassette was being played again and again in his mind. Rashid, we must make an arrest by tomorrow.

On the other side of the fence, a lanky boy was milking the family cow. His mother, a young woman of thirty, was shouting something about a man reaching the moon. Her ears, weighed down by heavy earrings, looked out of shape. Small children, dressed in white and blue were walking down the road. Everything seemed normal, except it wasn’t. The inspector rubbed his hands and walked across the garden to the other side where there was a small Neem tree. He shook a branch and droplets of water trickled down his face. He inhaled the cool air and tried to empty his mind.

The inspector’s wife was out in the garden too. She was attending to the shrubs which had felt the full force of the storm. The family dog was busy chasing imaginary objects along the length of the garden. Gone were those

 days when owners named their dogs Moti or Sheru. With the advent of Hollywood in India, it was chic to call your dog Tommy, Jimmy, Joey or Woody. This particular dog was called Bruno and his futile chase ended as soon as he saw the sub-inspector entering through the gate. With his tail wagging, Bruno sniffed him and paced around him in circles. The sub- inspector seemed pleased with the way the handsome labrador welcomed him. He bent down and patted Bruno on the head and exchanged pleasantries with the inspector’s wife, who in turn promised to fetch him some breakfast. She grabbed hold of Bruno and disappeared inside the cottage.

‘Morning Navpreet,’ greeted the inspector loudly. ‘It seems that the diet has been working for you.’

‘Not just a diet, sir,’ the sub-inspector laughed heartily, and patted his enormous belly. ‘A balanced diet – a bottle of beer in each hand.’

In the eleven years the inspector had known Navpreet, they had engaged in many a mindless banter. It was one of the pleasures of living in a small town, the incidents and amusements are less varied. One made fewer acquaintances, but since the town was small they met more often. The best thing about the people in smaller towns was that they never changed, they just grew older. Also, there was hardly an unfamiliar face; when you walk down a street, familiar smiles greet you from the open windows, kick- starting leisurely conversation on subjects ranging from cricket to politics and of course everyone’s favourite – Bollywood. But today, there were more serious matters to attend to.

The sub-inspector frowned. ‘Got to read the newspaper yet?’

‘Yeah! One full page on the Arora case. Who leaked out so much information?’

‘Maybe one of the officers or their wives. We will never know.’

‘It could have been my wife too,’ the inspector sighed and looked over his shoulder to check his wife’s presence.

 Inspector Rashid was quite wary of his wife. Mrs Rashid took full advantage of the fact that their house was separated from their neighbours by a fence and not a wall. She would spend hours, craning her neck over the fence for gossip. Then she would relay this information to a greedy ear on another part of the fence. Moreover, she felt like a detective herself, specializing in solving (in some cases starting) post-marital affairs. She had a keen interest in the cases her husband worked on, and whatever he told her about it became the common knowledge of the entire town within minutes. But even when the inspector refused to give her the details of a case, she could find them out within a day, sitting placidly at home. She would then torment him with condescending remarks like, ‘‘You shouldn’t have allowed Ramesh to leave town’’ or ‘‘God, you are so naïve, how could you believe a hooker?’’

Last night, the inspector had given her all the details of the case. There was a reason to it. In several cases, the inspector had benefitted from his wife’s secret team of maidservants, drivers, grocers, milkmen, and shopkeepers. This being a high-profile case, the inspector was eager to get some insider information ... that too as fast as possible. Thus, the article in the newspaper did not surprise him. It could have been her or any of her hundred accomplices.

Inspector Rashid’s son appeared carrying two plastic chairs. He placed it in front of them and hurried back to the cottage. The sub-inspector found it difficult to fit his wide and heavy frame on that small plastic chair which squeaked as he tried to adjust himself on it.

‘It’s got to be Anubhav,’ blurted the sub-inspector, his puffy red cheeks looking puffier than ever.

The inspector frowned. ‘Why would you say that?’

‘For one, he does not have an alibi,’ chimed the sub-inspector assertively. ‘Esha was last seen at around 5.10, everybody has an alibi for that time. Pranav was with Naina and the brothers had seen Rashmi walking

 outside. Jyoti was in the kitchen, and Mr Dhruv was in his room. Meera would have seen them if they had gone towards Esha’s room. Anubhav claims he was in his room too but he has no alibi.’ He paused. ‘Also, let us not forget the fight, probably a lover’s spat – so there is the motive, alright. And ... finally, there is the sweater,’ the sub-inspector closed his argument with an air of confidence.

Inspector Rashid hesitated for a moment. ‘I find it very extraordinary Navpreet. I mean, why would a person commit a murder and then take the victim’s sweater and put it under his bed. There is no rhyme or reason to such an act.’

‘People do strange things in the heat of the moment, sir.’

‘Don’t I know that already Navpreet ...’ said the inspector thoughtfully. He crossed his legs and took a deep breath. ‘Twenty-six years since I joined the police force, there is very little left for me to see. And one thing I have learnt – murder is an amateur’s crime. Of course, I am talking about the regular cases, not serial killers or gangsters. Murderers, they are ordinary people like you and me ... with just one difference. Their common sense has been trumped by their desire for love, freedom, money or power. It is usually one of these. And suddenly, they see a shortcut, a shorter route which would release them from the suffering they were subject to, and they go for it.’

‘While executing the shortcut, some of them fumble,’ continued the inspector. ‘Why? Simple ... they fumble because they are amateurs! Some are so overwhelmed by their success, they end up doing crazy things. Husband murders wife but wants to kiss her one last time allowing the servant to spot him. Son murders father, and instead of running away, he starts looking for his father’s pen. Why? He wants to have a souvenir of the bad times. His sister walks in, and then he has no place to hide. These actions cannot be explained, Navpreet,’ said the inspector gloomily, casting an eye on the mountains.

 The sub-inspector gave a stiff nod and carefully studied the inspector who seemed to be lost in contemplation.

‘From what I have seen, murders are of two types,’ said the inspector, the tips of his fingers coming together. ‘First are the unplanned ones, committed by people who were suffocated in some way by the acts of the would-be victims. When they see an opportunity, their fear is eclipsed by the pain they have suffered and they strike.’

‘Second are the planned ones, committed by schemers. They are ready to suffer a little more, but meanwhile they come up with a plan, accounting for every eventuality and leaving no provision for the unforeseen. Once they are confident about their foolproof plan, they would wait for the perfect opening and then bam!’

He paused and glanced at the sub-inspector. ‘To me Navpreet,’ said the inspector pensively, glancing over at the sub-inspector, ‘this looks like the type two murder done by someone with a controlled intelligence. Nothing is random here ... and that black sweater has got to be the key to this riddle. Believe me, when we discover the truth behind that sweater, we would have solved the case.’ There was something indescribable about the way the inspector said those words. It was as if he was standing in front of a closed door, aware of the secret it guarded.

‘But why would you think that way?’ protested the sub-inspector defiantly. ‘I know this is a high-profile case, and that the grim and strange facts lend it a character of its own. But every case does not require us to employ higher powers of observation and intricate analysis of the criminal mind. Sometimes, it boils downs to that one simple question. What was the motive? And from all the statements that I have collected, I am confident that this was a murder that had to be done. It was urgent. Type one in your nomenclature. The victim was murdered and then some clues were scrambled here and there to mislead the police.’

‘You make a good point Navpreet, but we cannot ...’

 The inspector’s son presented himself once again, this time with a small wooden stool in his hand. He placed it in front of them and left immediately.

‘Navpreet, let us not jump to conclusions,’ said the inspector. ‘Let us go over the things we already know. Would you mind playing it down for me?’

‘Sure, sir. First things first. We found a bruise on the back of the victim’s head. More than a centimetre deep. Also, the index finger on her left hand was found broken. That happened probably because the victim lost consciousness when she fell on the floor. Then she was choked with a pillow. We have the doctor’s confirmation, the victim died due to asphyxiation.’

‘That explains the pillow on the side of the body. So, it is a murder all right. A cold-blooded murder,’ said the inspector shaking his head. ‘The blow might have done it already but the murderer choked her anyway just to make sure.’

‘So, do you see now why I think the murder was urgent?

The inspector shook his head impatiently. ‘What about the murder weapon?’

‘We found a brick on the other side of the sidewalk just outside the back door of the victim’s room. The brick actually formed the boundary to a flower hedge. There is no surety about that, though. It simply may be out of position. I have sent it to Chandigarh along with the pillow for further analysis. We will get the results by Tuesday.’

‘Is there a possibility that an outsider was involved?’

‘No, sir. Six-feet high boundary with razor sharp barbed wire on top. The only way to enter the complex is the front gate which is heavily guarded. Everything in the room was in order. No hints of burglary. It has got to be one of the nine people present in the complex yesterday.’ There was a hint of excitement in the sub-inspector’s voice. The lust of chase was intoxicating for him.

 Inspector Rashid’s wife emerged from the cottage with a huge tray in her hand. She placed it on the stool in front of them. There was coffee and an assortment of snacks on it. She greeted the sub-inspector and walked towards the garden.

The inspector looked skeptical. ‘There was a board meeting in the afternoon, right? What if someone hid himself in the complex and later grabbed the opportunity?

‘No sir, I talked to the security guard. Five people had turned up for the meeting. Three gentlemen and two ladies. All left. I had it confirmed.’

‘What about the time of the murder?’

‘The doctor arrived at quarter past seven,’ the sub-inspector answered swiftly. ‘Her body temperature was 93 degrees Fahrenheit. Apparently, the body temperature decreases by 2.7 degrees every hour after death. And based on the stiffness of the body and the blood clotting, the doctor said that the victim was dead for at least two hours.’

‘Quarter past five or before,’ said the inspector reflectively, picking up his cup of coffee.

‘Yes, sir. Naina was the last one to see her, approximately ten minutes after five.’

‘So, that gives the murderer around five minutes. Show me the sheet in which you noted the statements.’

The sub-inspector pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket and presented it to the inspector. He then wrapped his hands around the cup, picked it up and swallowed a teeny bit.

The inspector read the paper, while munching a snack. It ran as follows.

Naina (Accountant)

At 5.05, she went to Esha’s room to discuss financial numbers. She left her room at 5.10 (Meera confirms). Then she went to Pranav’s room (Pranav confirms).

 Meera (Older Housemaid): First in the kitchen and then in the living room from 5.05.

Mr Pranav (Stepbrother of victim) was working in his room.

A minute or two after 5 pm, he went to Esha’s room. He was there for a minute (Jyoti confirms). Around 5.10 Naina came to his room.

Mr Dhruv (Industrialist) was in the guest room.

Came out of the room at 5.30 when he heard Jyoti scream.

Rishabh and Arya (Stepbrothers to the victim) were jogging from 4.30 till 5.00.

Then rested on the porch till 5.30 (Seen by Rashmi).

Mr Anubhav (Manager, Arora Cement) was watching TV in the drawing room.

A minute or two before 5 pm, sees Esha coming out of the passage going towards Rashmi’s room. A minute after five, he enters Esha’s room from the back door and interacts with her for a minute. Exits (Confirmed by Rashmi).

Went back to his room. Came out when he heard the scream.

Rashmi (Pranav’s sister) went out to take a phone call at around 4.35. (Confirmed by Rishabh, Arya). Seen again by them from 5.10 till 5.30 pm.

Came in when she heard Jyoti scream.

Jyoti (Younger Housemaid) served tea to Esha at 4.30 pm.

Went to give tea to Mr Dhruv at 4.40 pm and had a chat with him till 5.00. Went to the study room outside Esha’s room after 5 pm to collect the utensils (Seen by Mr Pranav). At 5.30 she went to victim’s room. Found her lying dead on the floor.

 ‘Great work, Navpreet,’ said the inspector admirably. ‘This is a complete list.’ He folded the paper and gave it back to the sub-inspector ‘One quick question, how sure are we about these timings?’

‘Pretty sure actually.’ He kept the folded piece of paper back in his pocket and began energetically. ‘In normal cases, people wouldn’t remember the exact time because no one notices it unless it is a routine activity. But this case is different. You remember there is a striking clock in the living room. At five o’clock, it rung five times, and the sound of the gong is audible from all the rooms. This helps us get an accurate picture of the movements around that time.’

The inspector nodded.

‘All the evidence points towards one direction sir,’ the sub-inspector urged like a wife convincing her husband to be strict on their son.

The sub-inspector was more orthodox than the inspector. His brain was programmed to make immediate conclusions based on what he saw and heard. When deriving a conclusion seemed difficult, he would first have the conclusion ready in his mind, and then twist the facts as he went along. Spending time analyzing a situation wasn’t his forte – for him, conclusions were all that mattered. As Sherlock Holmes would have put it, “your eyes see things, it doesn’t observe.” In many ways, Mr Navpreet made a perfect Dr Watson, the guy who chronicled Sherlock’s pursuits, which in this case was the inspector himself.

‘Yes, the evidence is damning,’ agreed the inspector, leaning back on his chair, with the coffee mug in his hand. ‘Almost everybody has an alibi between 5.10 and 5.15, except Anubhav. But, the thing with circumstantial evidence is that it is always tricky. It might point towards one particular person but if you change your point of view a little, it can point towards a different person altogether. But, I must confess – at this juncture everything points towards Anubhav.’ He paused, sipping his coffee, ‘There is a saying in the army, if your attack is going too well perhaps you are walking into a

 trap. For a moment, I implore you to consider other possibilities, Navpreet. Who else can it be?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied the sub-inspector instantly, completely disinterested in troubling his mind, which already harboured a perfectly good conclusion.

There was a moment of silence,

‘It could be Mr Dhruv,’ said the inspector quietly.

The sub-inspector gasped. ‘But Meera ... she was sitting in the living

room watching TV. How could he ...’

‘There are back doors in other rooms as well.’

‘Sir, his room’s back door was locked. I checked.’ The sub-inspector was

defiant.

‘How about the back door in Arya’s room?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Yes, Arya showed me his room yesterday. There was mud all around

and the latch of the rusty back door was out of position.’

‘So you are saying,’ started the sub-inspector disbelievingly, ‘Mr Dhruv

went out from that door, ran all the way around the house to Esha’s room and murdered her?’

‘I am not saying anything, Navpreet. And the kind of influence Mr Dhruv has, he wouldn’t involve himself in a murder. He would rather hire someone to do that for him.’

‘You are confusing me, sir,’ said the sub-inspector irritably. ‘Many cases have been closed with lesser evidence than what we have here.’

‘Wrongly closed,’ added the inspector seriously. ‘Fine, give me one logical explanation how that sweater went to Anubhav’s room.’

The sub-inspector took his time. And then suddenly he drew a short breath. ‘Sir ... I think I got it. I think ... while passing through that room Esha deliberately dropped it there. Some sort of a romantic gameplay. An invitation to come to her room.’

 The inspector flung his hands towards the sub-inspector. Once again the sub-inspector was able to twist the facts to such an extent, it seemed believable. The inspector laughed softly and stretched himself. He had wanted the sub-inspector to logically construct every possibility but now he decided against it. He left this task for himself.

‘I have asked the boys to join me during the investigation.’

‘Who? Rishabh and Arya? Why?’ The sub-inspector seemed alarmed. ‘Simple.’ The inspector shrugged. ‘Rishabh knows what’s happening in

the office and Arya knows more about home. They will be an asset during the interrogation – no one will try to trick me.’

The sub-inspector looked satisfied. Once again the inspector had surprised him with his ingenious tactics. It was the common knowledge of the town that the brothers were the only ones in the household who were close to Esha. Their mother had died during childbirth, and Esha had raised Rishabh and Arya like a mother. Her death did make them rich by a handsome amount but they were already quite rich. A smile made the corners of his cherubic face curl up. By taking them under his wing, the inspector made sure that he would be able to extract the truth during his interrogations. Moreover, their love for their sister would motivate them to help the inspector in this investigation. And the plan was already working – last night Arya had approached the inspector and showed him the footprints in his room.

The inspector cast a glance on his wife who was walking around aimlessly in the garden. On noticing her husband looking at her, she suddenly stooped to disentangle a twine of leaves. Her movements were too suspicious for a police inspector.

‘Is everything all right there?’ The inspector shouted.

‘Oh nothing ... Just these shrubs ... These wild shrubs,’ tweeted the inspector’s wife. This was an apt description of the noise that her lips made while she talked. She continued, ‘they just grow anywhere – thorns – I was

 meaning to get rid of them – but who has the time?’ She picked her heavy self, adjusted her black hijab on her forehead and walked towards them speedily.

‘You should come to my house and take a look at my backyard,’ the sub- inspector burst out laughing. ‘It’s a jungle.’

The inspector’s wife joined in the laughter, ‘Is that an invitation I am hearing, Navpreet?’ The sub-inspector opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Mrs Rashid.

‘So what’s with you two experts – you have a murder mystery on your hands – it is a very sad thing though ... Esha Arora ... very sweet girl ... you ask anyone ... Esha Arora was a very sweet girl they will say, very committed towards her work – genuinely cared for all the employees – but fate ... what can you do about it? I’d assume you two must have made significant progress in identifying the murderer ... sorry ... sorry ... I shouldn’t interfere. I am very sorry.’ She stopped to catch a breath.

The sub-inspector made a second attempt to say something but stopped short as she started again, twittering in rapid bursts.

‘There is something ... I got to get out ... cannot keep it inside. I am terribly sorry to interrupt ... but I cannot hold it anymore. There is something I was meaning to tell you both – it is very important – I have to tell you – it will give some sort of a direction to this case ... not that you don’t have one already ... it is just so important that you two should know about it.’ Her face twitched as if she was fighting an inner devil.

‘Interesting ... What is it?’ said the inspector calmly looking up at his wife.

She took a deep breath. ‘It is nowhere close to interesting – I have been meaning to tell you this for a long time now – Oh! It has been eating me up from within. I am a firm believer of Allah the Almighty, and I know that he has his own way of punishing sinners. But ... I am the wife to a person whose duty is to get hold of people who are immoral, dishonest and corrupt.

 But ... when I became privy to an information regarding a sinner – I chose to keep it to myself. I left the task to the Almighty ... But now I realize ... sometimes Allah wants us to act like his messengers – I had been a fool once ... but no more ... Merciful Almighty,’ she raised both her hands above her head, looked up towards the heavens, and then she spoke like a woman possessed. ‘Merciful Allah – give me the power so that I can do what I should have done long before – because today I shall speak – today I must right the wrong.’

Inspector Rashid covered his mouth with his hand and smiled softly behind it. He was aware of his wife’s skills of showmanship. But he could clearly see the effect it had on the sub-inspector who was taken aback by his wife’s performance. The way she looked towards the skies with her hands raised and asked the Almighty to aid her out of her misery by providing her strength had left an impression on the sub-inspector as he waited patiently for her next words.

Mrs Rashid continued, her voice like a machine gun pumping bullets in rapid succession:

‘I am a simple person ... I love to talk ... I don’t believe in class differences ... I talk to everyone – servants, shopkeepers, milkman – everybody. As soon as others see that I am genuinely interested in their lives, they talk back – mostly about their life, love, friends, family, ambitions. Sometimes it is just gossip – other times, I get hold of some information which is of tremendous consequence. Three months back, I came to know about Yogesh, simple guy, simple tastes – a street peddler – bought fancy clothes, watches and sunglasses from Delhi and sold them in Solan bazaar ... no criminal record ... not married ... occasionally fancied a drink or two. He has many friends in Palampur because he did his schooling here. Two of them – a shopkeeper and a compounder at the veterinary clinic are his best friends – they had gone to meet him at Solan – had a few drinks with him and were looking for a place to crash. Yogesh

 took them to a three bedroom flat in a very posh locality ... told them that the owner allows him to live there rent free ... he just took care of the house. Then they turned the music on and had a little more to drink ... his friends kept praising him about how lucky he was – one thing led to another and Yogesh claimed that the house was his. He was mocked – they laughed a lot – made fun of his work but Yogesh did not mind. Later when they were about to sleep he showed them the property deed – the flat was in the name of his sister.’

‘I am sorry ...’ said the sub-inspector, staring at Mrs Rashid for a long moment and then turning to the inspector. ‘But, I don’t see any connection with the Arora case.’

Inspector Rashid smiled, he was aware of his wife’s pattern of storytelling. She was building momentum.

‘I know ...’ said Mrs Rashid encouragingly. ‘But if you know who the sister was, you will find a connection.’ Her eyes sparkled.

‘Who is the sister?’ the sub-inspector’s mouth opened in anticipation.

She went on with her narrative. ‘Let me hold that name for a while. This lady, I have known her for some time now – a heinous woman – one of those kinds whom you see crying all the time ... her face portrays pain and agony ... you naturally feel sorry for them ... you feel that they are just too delicate. But ...’

The first signs of discomfort showed on the inspector’s face as he tapped his forehead and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Enough of the theatrics,’ he said, ‘give that name already, will you?’

‘Jyoti. Yogesh’s sister is Jyoti.’

‘Jyoti ...’ repeated the sub-inspector unbelievingly. ‘She is a housemaid. How did she manage to buy such a house? A three bedroom flat in Solan ... I couldn’t even dream of buying such a place.’

‘Well, that is for you to find out.’ The inspector’s wife gloated. ‘All I can tell you is this – in that house – behind the facade of weakness ... crawls a

 shrewd opportunist.’