Taggart walked over to his desk, dropped into his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘Bloody hell.’
The sentiment was hard to fault.
He removed his spectacles, rubbed ponderously at his chin and turned to Suren.
‘So a respected, nationally prominent Muslim comes a thousand miles across the country, murders a Hindu, all under your nose, and your reaction is to burn the place down and then get yourself arrested by the local constables who, I might add, are hardly known for their alacrity? Have you taken leave of your senses?’
The sensible response would be to stay mum, look remorseful, maybe focus on a patch of carpet and wait for the commissioner’s tirade to blow itself out. I fully expected Suren to adopt it, but Suren and the concept of ‘sensible’ didn’t seem to be much on speaking terms these days. Instead he raised his head and asked for permission to speak.
‘Speak?’ said Taggart. ‘Of course! Please! Enlighten us as to what the devil possessed you?’
‘It seemed a judicious course of action, sir… given the circumstances. I hoped to forestall further violence… afford us the opportunity to apprehend Gulmohamed while averting a riot. I simply hadn’t expected the local constables to arrive.’
The hangman’s grimace on Taggart’s face suggested he was less convinced, and though I still harboured a sea of doubts, it seemed an appropriate moment for me to come to Suren’s defence.
‘I have to agree with the sergeant, sir,’ I said. ‘He might just have bought us some time to figure a way out of this mess.’
The commissioner turned his ire on me.
‘Thank you, Mahatma bloody Wyndham. You think you’re pouring oil on troubled waters?’
In truth my words were doing just that. There came a diminution in the volume of the commissioner’s invective, and then a gradual, reluctant acceptance that, having been dealt a rather bad hand, the sergeant, other than finding himself up on charges of murder and arson, might just have played it rather well. And the key to extricating him from those was to find and question Gulmohamed.
‘Well?’ said Taggart finally. ‘What are you waiting for? Get out there and find the man. Don’t arrest him. Detain him on some grounds and make sure you bring him straight to me at Lal Bazar.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, and turned for the door. Suren made to follow.
‘Not you, Banerjee,’ roared Taggart. ‘You’re coming with me.’
Suren blinked.
‘To Lal Bazar?’
‘Not a chance. You may recall you’re under arrest. I can’t change that for now, but I can make it house arrest.’
The sergeant’s jaw fell open. ‘So the charges against me still stand?’
‘For now. We’ll discuss this further on the way to your lodgings.’
It appeared the sergeant was about to protest, but then thought better of it.
‘Yes, sir.’
Taggart took a sheaf of papers from his desk and stuffed them into a leather briefcase that looked like it had fought in the war. He summoned a native bearer, who, with a nod, picked up the valise and fell into step behind us as we walked back out to the veranda.
The commissioner’s exit seemed to have caught his aide, Villiers, by surprise. The man dashed for the telephone to summon Taggart’s chauffeur, then, noticing that our car was still parked in the drive, raced down the steps beyond the front door to remonstrate with Shiva who’d escaped the vehicle for the shade of a nearby peepul tree. Words were exchanged, or rather shouted by Villiers in Shiva’s direction. The driver ran to crank up the engine as Taggart’s car appeared at the entrance to the driveway.
‘Wyndham,’ said Taggart, ‘once you’ve brought in Gulmohamed, I want you to go to Mukherjee’s house. Speak to his family and the Hindu hotheads he surrounded himself with. Convey our sympathies. Tell them we’ve the matter in hand. Above all, don’t give them any indication that this might have been a religious killing… or, for that matter, a murder by a serving police officer.’
‘What exactly should I tell them?’ I asked.
‘Tell them we’ve detained a suspect for questioning and that we’ll make an announcement shortly.’
‘I’m not sure that’ll placate them, sir.’
‘Then think of something that will.’
Taggart turned to Suren.
‘With me, Sergeant. No point dawdling.’
The two of them headed down the steps and into the sun as I waited for Shiva to start the car. Finally the engine burst into life. Shiva removed the crank and threw it into the footwell, then opened the rear door for me. At the mouth of the driveway, Taggart’s chauffeur was doing likewise for the commissioner. But as I walked down the steps, all hell broke loose. As if from nowhere, I heard the sound of a car screeching to a halt. I looked over to see the stony-faced sentry rush forwards, raising his rifle as he went. But he was too slow. A shot rang out and the man crumpled like an empty coat. Taggart reached for his revolver but he too never made it. The world seemed to slow. Something was thrown from the car. A small, dull metallic sphere not much larger than a cricket ball. I watched it arc through the air and knew immediately what it was: a crude, home-made bomb. The type favoured as much by Bengali terrorists as Irish ones and which was as likely to blow up its thrower as it was its intended target. But this time there was no such luck. It landed a few feet from Taggart and exploded. A flash of white light, a noise like a thunderclap and suddenly the scene was shrouded in smoke. Bombs like that generally had a pitifully small blast radius, but even so, with nothing between it and the commissioner, it would be more than enough to kill him. Amid the smoke I searched for Suren.
More shots rang out. Four times in quick succession. Instinct kicked in. I dropped to the ground and reached for my Webley. Rising to a crouch, I peered along the street. The smoke was clearing. The glass in the windows of Taggart’s car had been shattered and crystalline fragments lay strewn on the concrete. Taggart was on the ground, with Suren dragging him towards the relative protection of the car’s armour-plated door. I got up and sprinted over to them as the bullets continued to fly, this time, I thought, from several positions. Maybe some of Taggart’s protection detail had got their act together and were now returning fire.
In the shadow of the vehicle, Suren seemed to be cradling the commissioner’s head. Then I saw his uniform: a horrific red blossom spreading over the white tunic. I dived in beside them.
‘How is he?’
Suren shook his head. ‘God knows.’
Taggart’s face was blood-smeared and ashen. Suren’s shirt was torn and bloody, but with whose blood was unclear.
‘And you?’ I asked.
‘Just a scratch.’
Together we positioned the commissioner so that he was sitting slouched against the wheels of the car. I turned towards the house and shouted to Villiers who had taken cover behind a palm in an earthen pot.
‘Call a doctor, damn you!’
Suren leaned over Taggart’s prone body and reached for the commissioner’s holster.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I asked.
‘I need a gun,’ he said.
He grabbed Taggart’s revolver, then sprinted out into the street, past the motionless body of the sentry who’d waved us in earlier. There came a screech of tyres and the growl of an engine accelerating. Suren let off a shot, then began to give chase. Around him, other officers continued to fire.
Suddenly Villiers was beside me.
‘Ambulance is on its way.’
‘Look after him,’ I said, then got up and followed Suren into the street.
In the distance, the car roared off and turned a corner, its tyres howling in protest. Suren was a good two hundred yards behind it. He slowed to a stop, then doubled over, catching his breath. Above the shouts of policemen, the sound of sirens wailed somewhere in the air. I caught up with him.
He continued to breathe heavily, his forehead bristling with sweat. His hands, still holding Taggart’s pistol, were smeared with dirt and blood.
‘Did you get a look at them?’ I asked.
He shook his head.
‘The registration plate?’
‘Missing. How’s the commissioner?’
‘Villiers is with him. An ambulance is on its way.’
He stared helplessly in the direction of the fleeing car.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We should get back.’
That’s when he pointed the gun at my chest.