I ordered Annie’s chauffeur to drive north towards Cossipore. It was late now, but the usual veil of darkness that draped the city was tonight hemmed by the amber glow of fires on the horizon. He didn’t seem particularly keen to take me that far, either on account of his own safety or possibly that of the car’s. I assured him that nothing untoward would happen, but I sensed he didn’t quite believe me. Still, paid employment is hard to come by in India, and the man did as he was told. It is sometimes easier taking a risk on your life than it is on your livelihood.
My destination once more, was, Gola-katta Gullee, in the midst of territory controlled by Uddam Singh. I told the driver to drop me on the corner then return in an hour’s time and wait for a maximum of thirty minutes. If I still hadn’t shown up, he was to drive to the nearest thana and report me missing, possibly detained at the pleasure of Uddam Singh.
Singh ran his operations from the back room of a shebeen halfway down the lane. It was a lousy place, even for Cossipore, constructed from worm-weathered boards, metal sheeting and rusted chicken wire, but then its patrons hardly went there for the decor.
I seemed to surprise the thug at the front door, which was odd given I’d been here less than twenty-four hours earlier.
‘I need to see your boss,’ I said.
The man crossed his arms.
‘You have appointment?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, pulling out my Webley. ‘It’s right here.’
I ordered him to turn round and stuck the barrel in his back. ‘Now, what say we go and see Mr Singh?’
The man led the way, shouldering open a door whose hinges screamed in protest. The interior was lit by a half-dozen hurricane lamps and reeked of kerosene.
A few of Singh’s men turned in our direction. Several even rose from their seats till I waved them back with the Webley. The man took me to the door to the back room. I thanked him, stored my revolver, then knocked and entered.
Immediately, I felt my arms grabbed by two sets of iron hands and twisted behind my back. I was pushed forward and a moment later the wind was knocked from my lungs and my face was forced onto the wood of a tabletop.
I heard Singh utter a command, ‘Chéré-dao,’ and I felt the hands loosen. With a little difficulty, I stood up and straightened my shirt.
‘Captain Wyndham,’ said Singh. ‘They told me you were dead.’ His face suggested he wasn’t best pleased by the evidence to the contrary. I wondered why he’d thought that. And then it hit me. Could Singh have been behind the attack at Taggart’s house? When Suren and I had failed to show at the time I’d promised, had he taken it personally and ordered a hit on the both of us? He probably had informers in Budge Budge. Had they tailed us to Taggart’s house? Had they meant to kill me and Suren and merely hit the commissioner by accident? For years, planned attacks on Taggart had failed, and in the end, was it an attempted attack on me that had done for him? In other circumstances I might even have laughed. But now was not the time.
‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ I said.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked. ‘Is it too much to hope that you’ve brought me the head of your colleague, Banerjee?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ I said, ‘but I have come with an offer.’
Singh raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me.’
‘I want you to call off your thugs stoking up trouble against the Muslims. And in return, I’ll get your son out of jail.’
Singh gave a harsh laugh. ‘You expect me to trust you?’
‘You have my word,’ I said, ‘and an Englishman’s word is his bond.’ That was rubbish, of course, but by some act of colonial black magic, we’d managed to convince the natives it was true. ‘It might take a few days, but I’ll get him out. And in the meantime, given what’s going on in the city right now, a cell at Lal Bazar is probably the safest place for him.’
The gang lord considered it for a moment.
‘This violence in the streets,’ he said. ‘You think it is my doing?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘People are fed up with the Muslims. They are taking matters into their own hands.’
‘The attacks need to stop. The deal depends on it.’
Singh rubbed at the stubble of his beard. ‘I can guarantee nothing, but if you give me your word you will free Vinay, I will tell my men to stop. But there is one more thing…’
‘Name it.’
‘I want you to find the man who killed Abhay, my firstborn. I want your word you will find him and bring me his head.’
I couldn’t agree to any of that, not in good conscience at any rate. I’d no idea who’d killed his boy, and even if I did, I’d arrest him and see that he faced trial in a court. Yet I needed to stop the violence. How many lives would otherwise be lost?
‘You have my word,’ I said.