Whodunit: A tale of money, corporate greed and murder
Aditya Sinha’s new novel, is a murder mystery set in a newspaper office, where old characters add new twists to the delightfully convoluted plot. An excerpt.
could have at least used the shiny, smart, silvery trophy that stood on the side desk next to Das’s laptop, the trophy from the victim’s previous newspaper company, News of India. Maybe the use of the Jeeyo News trophy was deliberate. Perhaps it was a clue.
“Anything missing?” Sandesh asked. “From pockets? Desk?”
“Wallet untouched, sir, but keys missing.”
“His keys?” “I think so, sir,” Ramteke said. “Maybe the killer locked the door behind him while leaving. Shall we look at the wound?”
Das had been struck at least a dozen times. Ramteke counted out to Sandesh the marks on the pulpy surface that used to be a head. Sandesh looked at the grey matter peeking out. Was Das’s brain trying to tell him something?
“The post-mortem at KEM hospital will tell us the exact number of blows and the exact degree of trauma the brain suffered as the victim’s life faded,” Ramteke said. “It will also give us an approximate exact time of death.” “Approximate or exact?” “Yes, sir.” “Unless someone pays off the postmortem staff to make a fudged or false report,” Sandesh said.
“Not everyone’s a film star, sir,” Ramteke asked.
“Not everyone can bribe the hospital director with three crore rupees. Unless there’s a scandal. No, sir. KEM will just be sloppy as usual.”
“And we have no scandal in sight,” Sandesh said. “A disgruntled employee might have killed this CEO. For all we know, his secretary might have killed him. She’s the one who discovered the body, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Ramteke said. “A typical auntyji. And she doesn’t look too shaken.”
“Your estimation of the time of murder and death?”
“Sir, I’d say fourteen or fifteen hours ago. But it’s for the postmortem to say for certain.”
“That’s okay, I’m sure the postmortem will just confirm what you say.” “Thank you, sir.” “I hope someone’s on the call data analysis.” “Yes, sir,” Ramteke said. “SI Sawant has got the victim’s mobile number as well as his landlines at home and in the office.” “What about CCTV footage?” “Yes, sir, we’re getting that organised and scrutinised by Sawant’s team.”
“Chalo, aunty ko bulao,” Sandesh said. “Let’s hear what she has to say.” “In here?” “No, the conference room. Must be one in this office.”
They walked out of Das’s room. The office smelled of fresh paint and polish. The plate-glass windows to the far left overlooked Lower Parel. Office executives stood and gaped at Ramteke. Though they were in plainclothes, being in the crime branch, and though she was thinly built and not even five-feet tall — her category had a lower height requirement to join the force — she walked as if with each step she claimed another piece of this corporate floor as her own domain. The executives stared in awe and with curiosity, missing Sandesh who was right behind her. They might have noticed him had he towered over her, but he was a man of average height and slender build. Sandesh liked that she drew attention away from him; it gave him greater space for unhindered observation and thought.
Ramteke led them to the conference room where a PowerPoint presentation was in progress. A man with a protruding belly and armed with a laser pointer stopped talking as soon as he saw Sandesh standing in the doorway.
“Your boss is dead and you people are making presentations?” Sandesh asked.
“What to do, client was given time,” the laser pointer said, rubbing his belly. “You want the conference room? Please take it. We will reschedule.”
“Das is dead?” the client spoke up. He had a wispy beard. He had two accomplices on either side: on his left were two women, one a senior colleague in her forties, the other an intern. Sandesh gazed at the senior colleague, who wore a smart jacket and a fashionably short haircut, but Ramteke interrupted.
“Thank you for allowing us to use this room,’ she said firmly, and the clients hurriedly scurried out. The laserpointer introduced himself. ‘Bobo Batterji, VP, Marketing,” he said, clutching his laptop to his chest and sticking his hand out. Sandesh reluctantly offered him a limp hand to shake, and then Bobo left.
Sandesh took the seat at the head of the conference table and nodded to Ramteke. The sub-inspector brought in Theresa, who walked down the length of the room but stood standing in front of Sandesh, going anxiously from one policeface to the other. Theresa saw a balding inspector whose face resembled that of a vigilant pug, and a croppedhaired woman whose austere face was marked by heavy eyelids and a slightly bulbous nose-tip. Sandesh motioned for her to take a seat.
“Now why would anyone want to kill this man?” he asked aloud, as if talking to himself.
Theresa burst out crying. Sandesh and Ramteke exchanged impassive glances.
“Why couldn’t they have killed him a month from now?” Theresa bawled. “I was leaving at the end of the month. Why did this have to happen while I was still here?”
“What difference does it make?” Sandesh asked.
“How am I ever going to get that scene I saw this morning out of my head?” said Theresa. “What if I look for a job in a new company and they don’t hire me because my last boss was killed? What if they think I killed him? What if they think I should have stopped him from getting killed? What if my fiancé ditches me?”
“Why were you leaving this job?” Sandesh asked.
“Well,” Theresa hesitated, and then began to wipe her eyes as she prepared her answer. “It’s because … I don’t know, I don’t know if it has any relevance to this. It might even confuse things.”
Sandesh said nothing. He lifted his eyebrows in query. “Well, it’s like this: I was leaving because my boss, the late Mr Buster Das, sexually harassed me.”
Ramteke led them to the conference room where a PowerPoint presentation was in progress. A man with a protruding belly and armed with a laser pointer stopped talking as soon as he saw Sandesh standing in the doorway. “Your boss is dead and you people are making presentations?” Sandesh asked.
Excerpted, with permission, from The CEO who Lost his Head, published by Pan Macmillan India