Murder at the Grand Raj Palace by Vaseem Khan

Author:Vaseem Khan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2018-06-12T00:00:00+00:00

Meanwhile, some four kilometres away in the Dhobi Talao district of south Mumbai, the man at the centre of this uncomfortable discussion was standing in the reception of the Foreigners Regional Registration Office, Mumbai, attempting, with a growing sense of impotence and frustration, to make another man understand exactly what it was that he required.

That man, a civil service bureaucrat called Balaji, appeared to have been, in the distant past, nailed to the chair on which he now sat. Somehow, from his seated position, he contrived to look down upon Chopra.

“Let me see if I understand you correctly, sir,” said Balaji. “You wish me to locate records for an American gentleman you say may have worked in India thirty years ago, and yet you do not even know his name?” He said this in a tone that indicated to the others waiting in the reception that this was possibly the most ludicrous of the many ludicrous things that he had heard in all his years of wearing out the seat to which his backside was attached.

Someone sniggered, emboldening the martinet. “Perhaps you would also like me to eat fire, and run over hot coals?”

Chopra realised that, in the interminable drudgery of Balaji’s existence, here was a moment of unexpected glory, one to be grasped with both hands.

“I did not say that I do not know his name,” he said, through gritted teeth. “What I said was that I believe this man may have changed his name since he worked in India. It really is quite important.”

“Well, why did you not say, sir? I shall, of course, drop everything else and focus my sole attention on you. Please give me a moment to inform all these good citizens—” he swept an arm lavishly at the crowded waiting room “—that their petty concerns are of no importance when a man such as yourself barges his way in here and makes demands of us little people.”

Little people!

Chopra stifled the urge to reach out and put his hands around the idiot’s throat. Instead, he took out his wallet and showed him his identity card. “This is police business,” he said loudly, then leaned over and whispered: “And if you don’t help me, you will have to answer to the chief minister himself.”

The man shot to his feet, suddenly as nimble as a ballet dancer.

If there was one thing Indian civil servants feared more than death itself, Chopra knew, it was the wrath of a politician.

As Balaji led him deep into the bowels of the FRRO building, he spoke quickly, suddenly as loquacious and helpful as a blue jay. “You say this man was in India in 1985?”

“That is my belief.”

“Well, sir, at that time there were only two FRRO offices in the country. In fact, it only became mandatory for foreigners staying in the country to register themselves in 1984. Any foreigners who came to work in India would have been registered in either Mumbai or Delhi. You are certain that the man you are looking for was working in Maharashtra?”

“I believe so,” Chopra repeated.

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