Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

“What took you so much of time?” asked the detective as he climbed inside the vehicle, leaving Handbrake outside, and sat panting in the cool air like an overheated dog. “It is hotter than hell out there.”

“Press conference, sir,” answered the inspector in his deep baritone.

Inspector Singh was a stern bear of a man, six foot two inches tall with enormous hands and size 14 feet. He was sitting on the backseat of his jeep (his driver was behind the wheel) with the top of his head touching the roof, his neck and spine bent like a bow and his knees pressed into the back of the seat in front of him. Although a Sikh, he kept his black beard trimmed. His hair, too, was short and he didn’t wear a turban.

But while Singh’s religious identity was liberal, his investigative style was conventional. A graduate of the Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel National Police Academy and the son and grandson of former officers, he had a good track record when it came to solving bank robberies, rapes, kidnappings, burglaries and crimes of passion where the clues were staring him in the face and the choice of suspects was few. But when dealing with more sophisticated crimes, like cunningly orchestrated, premeditated murders for example, the inspector often found himself stumped.

In such circumstances, he turned to Puri.

The detective had solved a number of Singh’s cases, and pointed him in the right direction on various others, but never taken credit for his work. This rankled him; Puri relished the glare of the cameras and the opportunity to impress everyone with his acumen and skills. And yet the currency he received in return for his anonymous assistance was invaluable. He could count on information and cooperation with his own cases. And it often helped having an ally in the department to keep the chief, who reviled him as a ‘filthy jasoos’, off his back.

There was not another man on the Delhi force with whom Puri would have entered into such an arrangement. Singh was incorruptible. It didn’t hurt that, being only thirty-four, he was suitably deferential as well. Nor that he was Punjabi and enjoyed a couple of stiff pegs at the end of a hard day’s work.

“So, Inspector, what progress you’ve made till date?” asked the detective, wiping his face with his handkerchief and drinking more water.

The Sikh splayed his enormous fingers across his knees, studying his hairy knuckles and wedding ring.

“Honestly? I can’t make head or tail of it,” he admitted. “I’m starting to believe something supernatural did occur. I mean that. People don’t just vanish into thin air, sir. Furthermore, no one saw anyone coming or going. Plus I’ve got four witnesses who swear they saw the goddess murder Dr. Jha. And then there’s that video. You’ve seen it?”

Puri nodded.

“It looks so… well, so real , sir. That face, the arms – the fact that she’s levitating. The murder occurred close to a tree and some of the branches overhang the spot. But I examined those branches myself and there’s no sign of any rope marks. The only thing I found was some holes drilled into the side of the tree trunk.”

“Inspector, believe me, I am one man who believes in miracles. Unlike Dr. Jha, I know such things can and do occur. But because gold exists, it does not mean there is not fool’s gold, also.”

Singh made a face. “Sorry, sir?”

“Not every strange occurrence is automatically a miracle,” the detective clarified. “Take that incident few years back when Ganesh statues started drinking milk. Millions believed something miraculous occurred. A kind of pandemonium there was nationwide. But it was all a total nonsense. Just some unscrupulous individuals took advantage of people’s beliefs and superstitions. Got them believing something had happened which had not. Word spread like wildfires. Same is true now. I guarantee you no miracle has taken place.”

“I’m sure you’re right, sir, but I’ve never come across anything like this.”

“What all does Delhi’s ‘top cop’ have to say on the matter?” As ever when Puri referred to the chief, his voice was loaded with sarcasm.

“You know him, sir. If it can’t be solved, don’t bother solving it. Concentrate on cases where we can get quick, easy results. That’s his credo. Had the victim been the twelve-year-old daughter of a doctor or engineer it would be different. But none of his superiors are pressuring him on this one.”

Puri drained his bottle of water; he was beginning to cool off.

“Swami-ji’s whereabouts early this morning are known, is it?” he asked.

“He was in Delhi, a guest of the health minister, Vikram Bhatt. The minister himself called the chief first thing this morning to let him know.”

“By God,” muttered Puri.

“Do you think Swami-ji could be behind all this?” asked Singh.

“Too early to tell, no? But certainly he claims miraculous powers, levitation being one only. It is said he can be in two places at once. He had motive, also, after making one promise on national TV of some kind of miracle in Delhi to prove his power.”

Singh looked worried.

“Something is wrong?” asked Puri, although he could guess what it was.

“The chief wants Maharaj Swami left alone. Hands off. He’s not to be investigated.”

The detective sighed.

“No surprise there, Inspector,” he said. “But if you are asking for my help – and seems you are – I can hardly be expected to do a proper and thorough investigation while ignoring the main suspect?”

“Sir, all I’m saying is that we have to tread carefully.”

“That much goes without saying, Inspector. Now let us not waste more of time sitting idle. Take me to the spot.”

The crime scene had been cordoned off with metal barricades. But from even the most cursory examination, Puri could tell they had been put in place far too late to serve any useful purpose. Dozens of discarded bidi and cigarette butts, gobs of paan spit and fresh piss stains on the nearby jamun tree, which stood approximately eight feet to the north of the spot where Dr. Jha had been slain, indicated the size of the crowd that had gathered at the scene before the police had taken charge.

Plenty of traces also pointed to the earlier presence of opportunistic vendors as well. They had set up pitches selling cold drinks (bottle tops littered the entire area), peanuts (there were shells as well) and Hindi newspapers (flyers for a 50 percent mid-season sale at Jessy’s Shoe Palace in Pahar Ganj lay everywhere). Someone had also been doing a roaring trade in incense sticks: dozens had been stuck into the ground and lit on the spot where the goddess was believed to have appeared.

“Quite a carnival scene it must have been, isn’t it?” said Puri as he stood inside the cordon wearing his tinted aviator sunglasses with Handbrake by his side, umbrella aloft.

Singh was the only other person in the immediate vicinity. He had sent away his subordinates on some pretext (in case one of them reported Puri’s visit to the chief) and the media had been penned into a position in front of India Gate. Between there and the crime scene, Rajpath dissolved into a rippling, liquid mirage. Cars along the road melted as if made of chocolate. Figures took on alien dimensions.

“Constables patrolling the area reached first, is it?” asked Puri.

“Yes, sir. Constable R.V. Dubey arrived ten minutes after the murder occurred.”

Puri made a note of his name as Singh continued: “By then there was already a crowd of one hundred plus – passing auto rickshaw drivers, schoolkids, some women who’d been doing yoga. Their numbers quickly grew.”

The inspector himself had not reached Rajpath until eight thirty. By that time, hundreds of people, including the entire Delhi media pack, had trampled the crime scene.