With the coming of the dawn, the crows began calling and the checkpoints had disappeared from Taggart’s road. There had been a time when they’d been a permanent, twenty-four-hour fixture, but the other residents had complained and now, like some nocturnal beast, they and the officers who manned them, only came out during hours of darkness.
The guard at the entrance to his driveway, however, was still very much in place; a stony-faced sentry armed with scowl and a Number 1 Lee—Enfield rifle. Taggart must have told him to expect us as the car was waved through with only the most cursory of inspections.
Shiva brought the Wolseley to a halt halfway up the gravel path as the route further was blocked by a dog warming itself in the morning sun. Normally he’d have blown his horn or shouted, or, as a last resort, got out of the car and kicked the damn thing out of the way, but this was the commissioner’s dog, and so outranked all three of us in the car.
Suren and I got out and walked the rest of the way to the front door, where Taggart’s batman, Villiers, met us and led us through to the study. His Lordship was already waiting, dressed this time in a starched white uniform and staring out of the window at a lawn as verdant and flat as a bowling green.
He turned, and in that instant, I saw the burdens of office etched into the lines around his eyes.
‘What happened?’
The question was aimed at Suren.
‘It’s difficult to explain, sir.’
‘Well, you had better try, Sergeant.’
Suren swallowed hard. ‘I did as you ordered, sir. I tracked down Gulmohamed to a hotel in Budge Budge.’
‘Budge Budge?’ said Taggart, as though it might as well have been the moon.
‘Yes, sir. He met a man there. A well-dressed type. Eurasian, or maybe Anglo-Indian. I couldn’t see what they were discussing, but Gulmohamed seemed agitated. He waited for the other man to depart before setting off himself.’
He took a breath before continuing.
‘I followed at a distance. It was not easy. Budge Budge is just a knot of narrow lanes and winding alleys. He appeared to be searching for a particular address. I lost him at the mouth of a gullee, but then heard a noise – a gate closing. I tracked the sound to the entrance to a compound. The gate was unlocked and appeared unattended. I waited a few minutes and then thought I might enter to see what Gulmohamed was up to. As I passed through, however, I was attacked from behind.’
His hand went to the back of his head. ‘I blacked out. When I came to, there was no sign of Gulmohamed. I steadied myself, then made my way out into the alley, but that was deserted.’
Taggart raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Gulmohamed attacked you while you were supposed to be covertly following him?’
Suren reddened. ‘It would seem so, sir. I determined to go back to the compound, and inspect the house on the chance that Gulmohamed was still there. I circumnavigated the building. From outside it appeared deserted; all windows shuttered. It was when I checked the front door that my suspicions became heightened. It was open. I listened for voices but heard nothing. At that point I made the decision to enter. If challenged, I would say that I had been attacked and needed assistance. There were, however, no signs of life. I was about to leave when I spotted an open door towards the rear of the house. Through the gap it looked as though someone was lying prostrate on the floor. From the attire I could tell it was a man. He wasn’t moving, so I entered the room to see if he was all right.’
Suren shook his head.
‘I turned him over. There was bruising on his neck and his head fell forward. I suspected the vertebrae had most likely been snapped clean. I felt for breath or a pulse but found none. Only at that juncture did I recognise the dead man. Prashant Mukherjee… Well, you can imagine my shock at finding the pundit lying there, still warm. There was no rigor. I could only surmise that Gulmohamed had just killed him. He had gone there with that express purpose, and when he realised I was following him, he knocked me out, then murdered Mukherjee. I realised what would happen if word got out that Mukherjee had been murdered. And if people discovered that the killer was a Muslim, especially that it was Gulmohamed, the carnage across the city would be unthinkable.’
He paused and swallowed hard.
‘That is when I decided…’
‘What?’ asked Taggart.
‘To burn the evidence. In the heat of the moment, I could think of no better option, especially given the alternative of a religious riot. I hoped to make it look like an accident, as though Mukherjee had fallen asleep and dropped a lit cigarette onto the sofa, which had then gone up in flames and killed him. That would allow me to report back to you, without the whole country going up in flames. I moved Mukherjee’s body onto the sofa, put one of my cigarettes in his hand, then set fire to the whole pyre. Alas, it took several attempts to set the sofa alight and by the time a fire had started, someone must have reported something, as the local police turned up in force and arrested me, most vigorously.’
Taggart took a sharp breath. ‘That’s quite an accusation.’
‘But you didn’t actually see Gulmohamed enter the house?’ I asked.
‘I don’t recall exactly. The whole matter is still rather foggy.’
Suren’s account raised as many questions as it answered. What was Mukherjee doing there? Was it his house or had he been lured there? If he did live there, where was his family? Where were the servants? What was a Hindu ideologue, respected by goodness knows how many zealots, doing living in a hole of a place like Budge Budge? And all of that was before we even got to the fact that Suren couldn’t remember actually having seen Gulmohamed enter the house, let alone kill Mukherjee.
But before I could ask any more questions, Taggart took over.