Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Missing Servant

"You're on."

It took Puri less than thirty seconds to make his choice.

"He's the one in the middle."

"Shit yaar! How did you know?" said Rinku, fishing out the money and slapping it down on the table.

"Simple yaar!" He pronounced it "simm-pull." "The man on the right is wearing a wedding ring. So it shouldn't be him. His friend on the left is a Brahmin; I can see the thread through his vest. Guptas are banias, so it's not him. That leaves the gentleman in the middle."

Puri looked more searchingly at Mahinder Gupta. He was of average height, well built and especially hairy. His arms looked as if they had been carpeted in a shaggy black rug, his afternoon shadow was as swarthy as the dark side of the moon, and the many sprigs poking out from the neck of his golfer's smock indicated that even the tops of his shoulders were heavily forested. But Gupta did not strike Puri, who always made a point of sizing up a prospective bride or groom for himself, as the macho type. If anything, he seemed shy. When he spoke on his BlackBerry-he was using it most of the time-his voice was quiet. Gupta's reserved body language was also suggestive of someone who was guarded, who didn't want to let go for fear of showing some hidden part of his character.

Perhaps that was why he didn't drink.

"What did I tell you?" said Rinku. "Guy doesn't touch a drop of alcohol! Saala idiot!"

"What time will he play?"

"Should be any time."

A few minutes later, Gupta's golf partner arrived and the two of them headed off to the first tee.

"Chubby, you want to play a round?" asked Rinku.

"Not especially," said the detective.

"Thank God! I hate this bloody game, yaar! Give me cricket any day! So you want to come to the farmhouse? I've got some friends coming later for a party. They're from Ukraine. They've got legs as long as eucalyptus trees!"

"Rumpi is expecting me," said Puri, standing up.

"Oh, come on, Chubby, don't be so bloody boring, yaar! I'll make sure you don't get into trouble!"

"You've been getting me into trouble ever since we were four, you bugger!"

"Fine! Have it your way. But you don't know what you're missing!"

"I know exactly what I'm missing! That's why I'm going home."

Puri playfully slapped Rinku on the shoulder before making his escape.

On his way home, the detective considered how best to proceed in the Brigadier Kapoor case.

Mahinder Gupta struck Puri as somewhat dull-one of a new breed of young Indian men who spent their childhoods with their heads buried in books and their adult lives working fourteen-hour days in front of computer terminals. Such types were generally squeaky clean. The Americans had a word for them: "geeks."

Being a geek was not a crime. But there was something amiss.

Why would a successful, obviously fit and active BPO executive agree to marry a female four years his senior?

To find out, Puri would have to dig deeper.

First thing tomorrow morning, he would get his team of forensic accountants looking into Gupta's financial affairs. At the same time, he'd assign Flush to find out what the prospective groom was up to outside office hours and see what the servants knew.

Puri did not reach home until ten o'clock, an hour later than usual.

The honk of the car's horn outside the main gate marked the start of his nightly domestic routine.

The family's two Labradors, Don and Junior, started barking, and, a moment later, the little metal hatch in the right-hand gate slid open. The grizzled face of the night-watchman, Bahadur, appeared, squinting in the bright glare of the headlights.

Bahadur was the most conscientious night watchman Puri had ever come across-he actually stayed awake all night. But his arthritis was getting worse and it took him an age to open first the left gate, then the right, a process that Handbrake watched restively, grinding the gears in anticipation.

Finally, the driver pulled inside, stopped in front of the house and then jumped out quickly to open the back door. As Boss stepped onto the driveway, Handbrake handed him his tiffin.

The dogs strained on their ropes, wagged their tails and whined pathetically. Puri petted them, told Handbrake (who was renting a room nearby) to be ready at nine sharp and then greeted Bahadur.

The old man, who was wearing a stocking cap with earflaps and a rough wool shawl wrapped around his neck and shoulders, was standing at attention with his back to the closed gates. He held his arms rigid at his sides.

"Ay bhai, is your heater working?" asked Puri, who had recently installed an electric heater in the sentry box in anticipation of the cold, damp smog that would soon descend upon Delhi.

"Haan-ji! Haan-ji!" called out Bahadur, saluting Puri.

"You've seen anything suspicious?"

"Nothing!"

"Very good, very good!"

Puri entered the house, swapped his shoes for his monogrammed slippers and poked his head into the living room. Rumpi was curled up on the couch in a nightie with her long hair down around her shoulders. She was engrossed in watching Kaun Banega Crorepati , India's version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? , but turned off the TV, greeted her husband and brought him up to date with what was going on in the house.

There were no visitors or guests, she told her husband. Radhika, their youngest daughter, who was studying in Pune, had called earlier. Malika had gone home to her children, alcoholic husband and impossible mother-in-law. And Monica and Sweetu had gone to bed in their respective quarters.

"Where's Mummy?" asked Puri, perching on the arm of the armchair nearest the door.

"She went out a few hours ago. I haven't heard from her."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"She mumbled something about visiting some auntie."

"Mumbled? Mummy doesn't do mumbling. I asked you to keep an eye on her, isn't it?"

"Oh please, Chubby, I'm not one of your spies. I can't be expected to keep track of her all the time. She comes and goes as she pleases. What am I supposed to do? Lock her in the pantry?"

Puri frowned, hanging his head reflectively. His attention was drawn to the stain on the white carpet in the living room made by some prune juice Sweetu had carelessly spilled recently. It reminded him that he needed to have another word with that boy.

"I'm sorry, my dear, you're right of course," he conceded. "Keeping up to date on Mummy is not your responsibility. I'll try calling her myself. First I'm going upstairs to wash my face." This was code for: "I'm hungry and I'd like to eat in ten minutes."

After he'd freshened up and changed into a white kurta pajama and a cloth Sandown cap, Puri went up onto the roof to check on his chilies. The plants that had been caught in the cross fire appeared to be making a full recovery.

The detective was little closer to finding out who had shot at him. His sources inside Tihar jail had heard nothing about a new contract on his life. Tubelight's boys had not been able to find any witnesses to the shooting, either.

All the evidence pointed to the shooter being an amateur, an everyday person, who would have passed unnoticed in the street.

There was only one lead and it was tentative at best: Swami Nag had apparently returned to Delhi, but his whereabouts remained unknown.

Puri picked a chili to have with his dinner and made his way downstairs. Rumpi was busy in the kitchen chopping onions and tomatoes for the bhindi. When the ingredients were ready, she added them to the already frying pods and stirred. Next, she started cooking the rotis on a round tava, expertly holding them over a naked flame so they puffed up with hot air like balloons and became nice and soft.

A plate had already been placed on the kitchen table and Puri sat down in front of it. Presently, Rumpi served him some kadi chawal, bhindi and a couple of rotis. He helped himself to the plate of sliced tomato, cucumber and red onion, over which a little chat masala had been sprinkled, and then cast around the table for some salt.