Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Missing Servant

Mummy's little Maruti Zen crept along the road in Mehrauli, southwest Delhi. The road was lined with imposing walls topped with shards of broken glass. Behind these lay "farmhouses," some of the largest and most expensive properties anywhere in the capital, all of them built on land illegally appropriated by the wealthy and well connected. Mummy had visited one a few years ago during Holi. It had been like a mini-Mughal palace-all marble archways and perfumed gardens.

"Twenty-two!" called Majnu, Mummy's driver, as they passed another set of ornate wrought-iron gates and he read from the Italian marble plaque, which had been engraved with the owner's name: "KAKAR."

Mummy was looking for number nineteen.

She had been reliably informed by Neelam Auntie, one of her former neighbors in Punjabi Bagh, that it belonged to Rinku Kohli, Puri's childhood friend. Apparently, he spent most of his time in Mehrauli these days, often returning to Punjabi Bagh and his wife, children and elderly mother in the early hours of the morning.

Everyone knew what Rinku got up to in his farmhouse. It was an open secret. But his standing had not suffered in the community as a result. Punjabi Bagh's men admired him because he was rich, drove a Range Rover and liked to drink a lot of imported Scotch, watch cricket and tell dirty jokes. And the women were always ready to forgive a good Punjabi boy for his improprieties, just so long as he respected his elders, observed all the family rituals and raised strong, confident boys of his own.

"Must be making a packet," Neelam Auntie had commented admiringly.

Mummy, though, had always understood Rinku's weaknesses. The fact that he had turned out rotten like his father had come as no surprise to her-neither did the fact that he and Chubby had chosen such different paths. But Rinku had practically grown up in her house and she had always been kind to him.

Which was why Mummy felt confident asking for his help now. A serial adulterer and crook he might be, but nice, grey-haired Punjabi Bagh aunties still commanded his respect.

"There it is! Stop!" she shouted.

Majnu, who was sulking again because he had been working long hours helping shadow Red Boots, pulled up to the gate. A uniformed security guard approached his window.

"Tell Rinku Kohli he's got a visitor," Mummy called over the driver's shoulder.

"Madam, there's no one here by that name."

"Just tell him Baby Auntie is here. I've brought his favorite ras malais."

The guard hesitated.

"Listen, I know he's living here, na. So might as well get on with it!"

Reluctantly, the guard returned to his hut and picked up a phone. Mummy could see him through the glass talking to someone. Another minute passed before he emerged again and opened the gates.

Majnu started the engine again and pulled inside.

The "farmhouse" was set on three acres of immaculate, emerald lawns trimmed with neat hedges and lush flower beds. The house defied elegance, however. A modern redbrick structure with oblong windows and yellow awnings, it looked like a House of Fun at a fairground. At the back, Mummy spied a swimming pool and two tanned goris in bikinis sunning themselves. A lean, attractive Indian man in shorts and sunglasses was standing nearby, talking on a mobile phone and smoking a cigar.

Majnu stopped in front of the house and, as Mummy got out clutching her Tupperware container, Rinku came bounding down the steps.

"Baby Auntie, what a surprise!" he said, bending down to touch her feet.

"Namaste beta. Just I was passing, na," she said, patting him on the shoulder. "No inconvenience caused, I hope?"

"Not-at-all! You're most welcome any time, Auntie-ji, any time. Come, we'll have some tea."

He was about to head back into the house and then thought better of it.

"Actually, let's go on the lawn. It'll be quieter there."

He led her to a spot where a garden table and chairs were arranged in the shade of a tree.

"Oi! Chai lao!" he called to a servant who had emerged from the front of the house.

Rinku and Mummy sat down and "did chitchat."

"Where is Chubby?" asked Rinku.

"Who knows where? So secretive he is."

When the tea arrived, Rinku served her himself and then tucked into one of the ras malais, making suitably appreciative noises.

" Wah! "

Mummy saw her chance.

"Beta, you heard some goonda did shooting at Chubby, na?" she said.

Rinku's face darkened. He took off the sunglasses he'd been wearing and placed them on the table.

"I heard, Auntie-ji. I'm sorry."

"So close it was. Just one inch or so and he'd have been through. Fortunately, his chili plants saved the day."

"Thank God," intoned Rinku.

"Problem is, beta, Chubby's not doing proper security. When I help, he gets most upset. You of all people are knowing how stubborn he can be, na."

"Only too well, Auntie-ji."

"You know and understand. That is why I've come," she continued. "But, beta, you're not to tell Chubby we've talked. Equally, I won't go telling him you're helping in this matter."

Rinku patted her fondly on the hand.

"Auntie-ji," he said. "Chubby has always been like a brother to me. And you've been like a mother. We are family. Just tell me what I can do."

Mummy proceeded to tell Rinku about how she had tracked down Red Boots, a corrupt police inspector called Inderjit Singh; and how he had met Surinder Jagga at the Drums of Heaven Restaurant, where, over spring rolls and whisky, they'd discussed a murder.

"Since then I've done checking. Turns out, this fatty-throated fellow has desire to build one office block on Chubby's home. Already he's bought up some nearby plots. Recently one elderly neighbor, Mr. Sinha, sold out. Must be under pressure, but it has been hushed up."

"Did Jagga come to Chubby with an offer?" asked Rinku.

"Rumpi says Jagga visited some weeks back and offered Chubby a large sum for the land, but he turned him down flat. Jagga didn't threaten him, so naturally my detective son is unaware he did the shooting."

"Jagga and Singh must have decided the best course of action was to get rid of Chubby," said Rinku. "They probably thought someone else would get the blame and then Rumpi would take their offer and sell up."

"Jagga and Inspector Singh are bad sorts, that is for sure," added Mummy.

Rinku looked as if he couldn't make up his mind whether to congratulate Mummy on her brilliant detective work or scold her for taking so many risks.

"You've been keeping quite busy, isn't it, Auntie-ji." Rinku smiled, quietly impressed.

"Well, what to do, beta? Someone's got to look out for Chubby, after all."

"I know, Baby Auntie, we all worry about him. He doesn't look after himself, actually. But at your age you shouldn't be running around getting involved in this kind of thing. These people can be dangerous. Property brokers are the worst kind."

"Don't be silly, beta, I'm quite capable of looking after myself, na."

Rinku laughed. "I've never doubted that, Baby Auntie. But you've done more than enough. Leave this with me, OK? I'll take care of it."

"You know this Jagga fellow, is it?"

"I know people who know him," said Rinku, a little hesitantly. He paused. "Auntie-ji, I promise I'll sort it out. Trust me."

"Don't do rough stuff, beta, please."

"Of course not, Auntie-ji!"

"And not a word to Chubby."

"Not one word! Now I'll walk you to your car."

Flush was also busy while Puri was in Jharkhand. But he was finding keeping tabs on Mahinder Gupta deeply unsatisfying.

Never before had he trailed such a boring individual.

Mr. Gupta's routine was numbingly predictable.

On the day before Puri returned to Delhi with Mary, he woke at a quarter to six, spent ten minutes on his automatic toilet (which sluiced and dried his bottom and told him to "have a nice day"), changed out of his pajamas into his tracksuit, and made his way to the kitchen.