Dead in a Mumbai Minute (12 page)

‘Like the murder on Kimaaya’s island?’

‘It’s called Maaya.’

‘Cute, if a little narcissistic.’

Before Shayak could respond, the door opened and two cups of steaming coffee were brought in by a liveried man. I was grateful to see a tray of muffins and croissants along with it.

When we were alone again, Shayak pointed to a muffin. ‘Eat,’ he said.

I was too hungry for pride, so I helped myself. I forced myself to chew like a human and not swallow like a greedy puppy.

‘We’ll come back to Maaya Island – cute or otherwise – on our way over tomorrow.’

I took a sip of coffee. ‘Why am I the lead on the investigation and not Adlakha?’

‘Any reason you shouldn’t be?’

‘No, it’s just … unexpected.’

‘I am not big on hierarchy. Didn’t think you’d be.’

‘It’s not an objection, merely a question.’

Shayak responded by taking a long sip of his coffee.

It didn’t seem as though I’d get anything more out of him. ‘So this infidelity case I am looking into now is not the usual sort of case I’ll be dealing with?’

‘Absolutely not. Sometimes our clients come to us with this sort of request, and we prefer not to turn them away. Usually we’d outsource it but as Pratap is a friend and had very specific instructions on how he wanted it dealt with, I thought it best we keep it in-house.’

It seemed a reasonable enough explanation. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘What for?’

‘Humouring me.’

‘I’m not humouring you.’

‘You answer all questions from highly demanding employees?’

‘Some are more demanding than others, but I would like to think I hear everyone out,’ he said with a smile.

I remembered that I still hadn’t told Shayak about the bottle. I briefed him now about what the label had revealed, the estimated value of the bottle and the fact that it seemed as though we had a couple of usable prints from it.

‘We need to ensure all the guests at the party are fingerprinted,’ I said.

‘The cops have that covered,’ nodded Shayak. His phone rang, and he stood up as he answered.

‘Viraat is awake and ready for questioning,’ he said, hanging up. ‘Lucky for us, I have it on good authority that one of the businesses his daddy has set up for him is wine import,’ he continued as we got moving. ‘In fact, he is one of Mumbai’s leading importers. Though he reportedly loses more money than he makes.’

‘Not surprising,’ I said, ‘if he polishes off bottles worth crores on a regular basis.’

When we reached the hospital where Viraat Khanna was being examined, we found the police on guard outside. The officer on duty cleared the way for Shayak and me.

‘There you are!’ Viraat said as soon as he saw me. ‘I’ve been telling the cops I need to speak to you. Where’s my watch?’

‘Uh, how would I know that?’

‘You were there when I woke up. I assumed you must have taken it for evidence or something.’

‘No I didn’t,’ I said. ‘In fact, I didn’t notice a watch on you at all.’

Viraat slapped his forehead. ‘Shit! Someone must have stolen it.’

‘Do you remember when you last saw it?’ I asked.

‘I know I had it on last night.’

‘Could you have taken it off, forgotten about it?’

‘No! And it isn’t in the room or anywhere else in the house. I asked Kimaaya to check. I’m telling you, someone must have stolen it, man!’

‘Was it valuable?’ I asked.

‘Hell yeah! It’s almost an exact replica of Rafael Nadal’s watch! I need it back.’

‘A man was killed here,’ Shayak said. ‘I think that might be more important than your knock-off watch.’

‘That was no knock-off,’ Viraat snapped. ‘It was made by the same watchmaker who made Nadal’s. I paid, like, over 2 crore for it.’

What planet had I stepped on to? Wine and watches worth crores? In most parts of the world, each of those would be motive in themselves. It still was a possibility: though it might be spare change for the guests on the island that night, 2 crore would always be inducement for murder in my book.

‘Did you mention the value of the watch to anyone?’ I asked. ‘I might have.’

‘Last night?’

‘Puri asked about it.’

‘Who else heard?’

‘Everyone, I think. You don’t think one of them could have taken it, do you?’ He looked incredulous. ‘They are all, like, loaded. All except …’ he trailed off.

‘Now that you have had some time to think, can you remember anything else from last night?’ continued Shayak.

‘I think I got there around 9 pm or so. I had a bunch of people coming with me. I’d already had some to drink and when I got there, I had some more.’

‘Could you tell me what drinks were being served?’

‘Dude, what kind of a question is that? It was an open bar. Kimaaya had everything a good bar would stock.’

‘Wine?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

‘Okay. What next?’

‘Soon after I got in, Poonam left. She like said she had a thing early in the morning at one of the orphanages she works at. But Pratap stayed,’ he said. I saw his eyes cloud over for a second, and evidently so did Shayak.

‘Did something happen with Pratap?’

‘Not really, but the dude seriously has trouble keeping his junk in his trunk.’

I had visions of Pratap Puri flashing everyone at the pool party.

‘Why do you say that?’ Shayak asked.

‘It’s like he wants to do all the women in the room. Even Kimaaya was getting pissed.’

‘What about your girlfriend?’

‘Who?’

‘Afreen.’

Viraat let out an unattractive snort. ‘Oh, her! Dude, she’s not my girlfriend.’

‘Whatever,’ said Shayak. Was that a flash of irritation? ‘Did Pratap say anything to her?’

‘You know. The usual. Nothing too bad or I would have socked him.’

‘Why, if she wasn’t your girlfriend?’

‘She was for the night.’

‘Did anyone confront him about his behaviour?’

‘Not really. He was a guest, and a friend of Kimaaya. Though she looked like she might.’

‘Anything else of note?’

‘No, man. It was a really chilled out night, for the most part. We grilled some meat, hung out by the pool, drank.’

‘Seawater was found on your shorts, Viraat,’ said Shayak. ‘Do you remember anything about that?’

Viraat’s eyes widened. ‘Duuude.’

We waited as he struggled to recall his actions.

‘Dude, that’s right. At some point I think I went to the yacht. I vaguely remember taking a dip. Thought it would be cool.’

‘Were you alone?’

‘Don’t remember. Think so.’

‘What were you doing on your boat?’

‘I think I went to get a bottle of Scotch. Yeah, that’s it. Kimaaya knows nothing about the stuff, so I went to get something decent from my personal stash.’

‘Is that the only trip you made?’ he asked.

‘Huh?’

‘We have reason to believe a bottle of Scotch isn’t the only thing you brought from your bar.’

Viraat squinted in concentration – it seemed to be a novel attempt for him. And then enlightenment.

‘Duuude,’ he said, almost a whisper. ‘Not
that
bottle. Please tell me I didn’t touch
that
bottle.’

‘Could you tell me what you mean?’

It was infuriating, but I knew Shayak didn’t want to lead him in a rush to get answers.

‘A bottle of wine. I had acquired it for a client. I had to pull serious strings to get it, and it cost a bomb.’

‘Was it a Chateau Lalou?’

‘How did you know?’

‘We found it at the crime scene. It was used to murder Ashutosh Dhingre.’

As Viraat cradled his head in his hands, I quickly did the math. Between the watch and the wine, he had lost at least 3 crore in one night. It had turned out to be a seriously expensive party for him.

Then, in a moment, Viraat clammed up, insisting he didn’t know anything about it, and that he wanted a lawyer.

It was past 9 pm when we left the hospital. ‘Let’s go home,’ said Shayak.

Seated in the car, Shayak scrolled through the forensics reports that had been sent while we were out.

‘Preliminary blood work came back from the lab. Viraat had flunitrazepam in his system.’

‘The date-rape drug?’ I asked.

‘Yup.’

‘That explains him passing out and the patchy memory.’

‘But not much else. What was he doing out on the grounds? Who gave him the drug? Why?’ he said. ‘It is possible that he is a recreational user. There were also traces of cocaine in his system.’

‘You still think he is connected with the murder?’

‘His wine bottle is now confirmed as the murder weapon. Even without the gash to the neck, Dhingre would have been a dead man from the blow to the head, it just would have taken a little more time.’

‘Everyone at that party had access to that bottle, and there is no connection between the deceased and Viraat.’

‘So he says. We still need to corroborate that.’

Shayak handed me a piece of paper. ‘This is Ashutosh Dhingre’s address. I want you to go there tomorrow morning. Mrs Dhingre is expecting you at 8.30 am. Pack your bags tonight because the car will bring you directly from there to the boat, and we’ll head back to the island together.’

‘What do you want me to ask her?’

‘Let her talk. See what she says. You have a way with people.’

We drove into my complex and Shayak and I got out, then the car pulled away. Was he planning to come up?

‘Good night, Reema. Call me if you need anything.’

‘Are you going to walk home?’

‘Of course.’

‘How far?’

‘Twenty steps away,’ he said, pointing to another building in the same complex – the fancier one.

‘Let me guess – the penthouse?’

‘It does have the best view,’ he smiled.

‘Good night,’ I said, shaking my head as I walked away.

I didn’t know how I felt about Shayak being my neighbour. Between the boss next door and security cameras in the hall, it did seem as though, like Adlakha said, I had been kennelled. What happened if I brought a man back to my apartment? Would the whole office get to know? Would Shayak get to know?

I walked into the flat, and my eyes went to the TV. I turned it on for the first time. It took me a while to figure out the channels; it had been so long since I had owned a TV that I still remembered them as idiot boxes and not as a canvas hung on the wall like art. When I reached the news channels, Kimaaya’s face was everywhere.

Whether this murder was about Kimaaya or not, she loomed large over every aspect of it.

The cameras captured no footage of the crime scene itself – Shayak’s guards would have seen to that – but there were plenty of chaotic images of people coming and going from Maaya Island – the police, the Titanium crews. They must have arrived in greater numbers after we departed. Then there was a news conference with Ajay. He kept it down to the facts: the victim’s name and relation to the actress, the location – thankfully vague – of the murder.

‘Is Kimaaya Kapoor a suspect at this time?’ asked one reporter. Ajay didn’t even justify that one with a ‘no comment’; he simply moved on.

‘Any suspects?’ another journalist asked more judiciously.

‘Too early to say, Swapan, you know that.’

‘Is the murder in any way related to Kimaaya?’

‘As soon as we are prepared to reveal these details, we will release them to the press,’ he said, before leaving the room. I was impressed. Ajay did not dodge the media, but he did not kowtow to them either. It seemed the sensible route: this was Bollywood and this was the most shocking crime to happen in connection with an actor in some time. On the other hand, Shayak’s determination to pretend the media would just go away seemed of little real value.

And then I flipped to a channel showing a special feature about events at Maaya Island. ‘Though they have never admitted to any animosity publicly, sources say that Kimaaya Kapoor and Ashutosh Dhingre’s parting of ways was anything but amicable. One industry insider claimed Dhingre had been dismissed because of his disapproval of her on personal issues. Though it remains to be seen if that was a factor in his murder, it is definitely a mystery as to what he was doing on the private island of a film star whom he had had nothing to do with for some years.’

I switched off the TV, unable to keep my eyes open anymore. I didn’t even bother to pull down the bed; I set my alarm, kicked off my shoes and trousers, curled up on the sofa and soon was dead to the world.

‘For the past month we would have been hungry, had it not been for the help from my daughters. That is why my husband was trying to get in touch with Kimaaya ji. How long can we expect our sons-in-law to tolerate this?’

I was seated in Ashutosh Dhingre’s flat, speaking with his wife as she wiped her tears with her sari pallu.

You wouldn’t think the Dhingre family was living hand to mouth. The two-bedroom apartment was not in a posh part of town, but they owned it. It was sparsely furnished, and yet there were photos of stars sitting shoulder to shoulder with those of the children and dead forefathers. The walls were clean, though they hadn’t been painted in a while. This brand of middle-class poverty was clearly new to the Dhingre family.

‘How did things get so bad?’ I asked.