*** Special Feature - December 2019 ***
About the Book:
Is murder of human body the only kind of murder? What about murder of a dream? Or, murder of identity? This who and whydunit crime thriller explores the three questions through the unravelling of a web of lies, murder and deceit that threaten to bring crime very close home for Leena, a business journalist. The alternating first person voice of the unknown killer and third person narrative takes the story across a modern-day Bangalore and a strange discovery at an archaeological expedition with characters you would have seen around you. One of them, of course, is not who they seem to be.
Book Links:
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Policy Custody
I can hear the police siren from here. People are shouting. Indistinct words are floating up to me. I know he must be lying there on the concrete street, looking like a broken rag-doll with red paint staining his face and his body. The police are coming up to the terrace. I can hear their footsteps. The door is opening.
. . . . .
“Fall from this height. No chance he could have survived.” Suraj was panting heavily. The five flights of steps they had taken to reach the terrace had not gone easy on him. His face was plastered with beads of sweat; his shirt was sticking to his body, one button threatening to fall off.
“Too much exercise for you?” Arun was leaning over the naked edge of the terrace, looking as fit as if they were just taking a leisurely stroll in the park. At 5 feet 10 and with his lean physique, he probably could have sprinted another five flights of stairs.
Suraj tried to speak but he was still breathless.
“Just what we needed, man. Crazy. This junction’s all choked up now.”
“He’s dead, you know. A little sympathy won’t hurt.”
“Sympathy for the dead? I don’t remember to save it for the living.”
“Under construction apartment. Fall from the open terrace. The doctor said he’s been dead for the last few hours. That places time of death late in the night. What does that tell you?”
“Suicide, obviously. We’re wasting our time.”
“No suicide note found near the body.”
“Wasn’t his partly cracked phone found in his pocket? Check that. Must have made a last selfie. Today’s kids. Always taking the easy way out.”
“You don’t think it could be….”
“What…murder? You are looking for problems when there are none.”
“Hey…is that…” Suraj was staring below from the terrace to see if he could find anything suspicious.
“Come on, let’s finish up here quickly. Yes, Sir?” Arun walked off to a corner to speak to the police chief. More policemen combing the terrace now.
“Yes, boss. We identified the victim. Arpit Singh. Age 33. Medium Height. Wheatish Complexion. Suicide, it looks like. Fell from a vacant building, 5 storeys. Yes, we are looking.” Arun snapped the phone shut and walked back to where Suraj was standing.
“Say what, Arun, the tech team has been scooping through his digital life. Seems he was searching for options on how to commit suicide. And looking for unfinished construction sites in Bangalore. You might be right on this.”
“Ha, didn’t I tell you? Plain and simple suicide. Young people these days…I tell you.”
. . . . .
In a few hours, they will swoop into the thirty-three wasted years of Arpit Singh’s life. But unless they talk to me, they will never know that he was murdered. I wish I could stop them right there. But then, will they listen? Arpit Singh was a charmer. He had charmed everyone, including Delia. She never realized when he had become a habit with her. She used to love running her hand through his hair. Loved watching him speak. Loved hearing him say how much he loved her. Loved having him propose to her and dreaming of their new life together.
Till that call came that night. From another woman he had charmed. And married. She didn’t believe it. She had just gone shopping. A beautiful new, lace jacket was draped over her chair. She knew Arpit liked her to be daintily dressed. I saw her cry into her pillow that night, her eyes red and burning. I saw her frantically going through Arpit’s Facebook profile and his emails and even his interviews to check how she could have missed the tell-tale signs.
When Arpit called the next day, and asked her to meet her here for a surprise he had planned for her, her voice trembled on the phone. But she said yes. And he brought her up here. To kill her. You have to admit it. He tried to make a good plan.
Those searches on the Internet. He wanted to frame her death as a suicide. And finally, he chose this method. An under-construction apartment, deserted, in the dead of the night. No security, no cameras, no people. Quiet and effective. He had planned his story well.
I saw him standing there, facing the flickering night street lights when she walked up quietly and entered the terrace. Delia’s face was grim. She was dressed in dark jeans and a shirt and she had donned her thin, dainty, blue, new lace jacket.
“Delia!” he rushed towards her when she walked in. Did he notice that she tried not to flinch back from his embrace?
I think so. His smiling face showed the harsh lines of cruelty against the soft moonlight.
“See Delia - this is it. My surprise. This is it, our dream home.”
“What do you mean, Arpit?” Delia’s voice was flat, cold. She hugged the jacket close to herself as if trying not to give away her secret.
“I am booking this. For us. Aren’t you happy?”
Delia gulped back her tears. A few days ago, she would have been ecstatic. But now, she just cringed at his deception. She squared her shoulders and looked at him.
“Arpit, stop. I can’t do this anymore. Stop this charade.”
He closed the gap between them in two long steps and dragged her back to where he was standing. Anger distorted the perfect features of his face as he shook Delia with both his hands. The thin lace jacket stared ripping off her shoulder.
“Arpit, that hurts. I know what you did.” Delia spoke quietly but firmly trying to move away. They were standing dangerously close to the edge of the terrace now.
“What do you mean?”
“I know about Ishani. Don’t pretend that I don’t understand. And I will expose you. Don’t forget that I am a reporter.”
Arpit had pushed her to the corner now. The jacket had come off her shoulders. The lace had torn. Delia’s eyes were blazing with anger.
“You want to expose me??” Arpit repeated shaking her, his eyes narrow slits of rage.
“Yes. People like you need to be. If Ishani had not called me…..”
Arpit laughed. It was quite unlike his usual, gay laugh. Delia shivered. Her jacket was now torn off her body.
“Ok, that’s good. I can stop pretending now. This good guy act was starting to wear me down.” Arpit laughed again in the darkness. A hollow laugh. Delia shivered. The jacket had fallen to the ground between them. Neither made a move to pick up.
Delia winced in pain when Arpit squeezed her hand tightly but she held her ground. She looked down at the new, torn jacket once but didn’t bend down.
“You think I fell in love with you? You were just a distraction.”
“Your game is over, Arpit Singh. I am not scared of you.”
Arpit stepped back from Delia as if seeing her again, for the first time.
“You should be. Didn’t you wonder why I didn’t call you from my mobile yesterday? Why I called you so late from drunk Avinash’s mobile? He won’t even know that I used his phone. Didn’t you ask yourself why I called you here? You really think I would buy this damn apartment? For you?”
Delia stood quietly staring at Arpit’s face.
“No can trace this call to me Delia. And no one knows you are here.” He searched her face for traces of fear but Delia stared back at him without flinching.
“You don’t seem scared.” He spoke finally. “Didn’t you hear what I said? No one knows you are here.”
“Well, that goes for you too then right, Arpit?” Delia’s soft voice had a hard edge when she spoke.
“What? What do you mean?” His confident voice shook just a little at her answer. Arpit’s hands had closed around Delia’s neck by now. He was pushing her closer to the edge of the balcony.
“Killing me won’t solve anything.”
“You are the only person who knows the truth about me Delia. Ishani will never say anything to anyone. And when you die, the truth dies with you. Just a convenient suicide. Kids these days! No strength to go through life. Police will shake their heads. No one will know anything.”
Arpit was whispering now but his words were like bullets that cut the night air with their coldness. Delia looked like she was losing her balance. She tried to clutch him closer.
In a snap, Delia suddenly straightened up, looked down at the ground before her once and smiled. Before Arpit could slow his pace, he slipped on the lace jacket that was still on the ground and fell over the ledge. I got a last glimpse of his face before he went hurtling down. It was a look of pure horror.
She stared down for a long, silent moment after he fell down. As the first sounds of people rushing towards the body floated up, she stepped back and left the balcony, quietly.
I don’t think I will meet Delia again. The only thing that could have linked her to the crime is me. And she knows that.
. . . . .
“Hey, come on guys, there’s nothing else at the crime scene. Let’s go and file up the report. These kids these days! No strength to go through life.” Arun was walking back towards the door of the terrace. He had not noticed me.
Suraj was standing near the edge peering down at the ground below.
“Did he come here to kill himself? I am just wondering - did he trip over something? Or did someone push him you think? If only we had any evidence!” He spoke softly and clearly but no one else was listening. Everyone else had started walking back. Suraj stared down intently again for a long minute and then walked back to his team.
. . . . .
So that’s my story. Wonder who I am now and how I know so much? I am that new lace jacket Delia had worn. The jacket that Arpit had slipped on. Murder weapon you could call me. But you won’t find me now. I fell too with Arpit when he fell on me. He had tried clawing back to the terrace using me but I had slipped from his hand. I didn’t reach the ground. When I slipped from his hand, I fell into a ledge. And there I am now. Stuck now on a ledge between the 3rd and the 4th floors. Suraj had almost seen me. But not quite. If the police had found me and taken me into custody, they might have known the truth about Arpit. And Delia. But no one will find me now.
You could win a copy of A Marketplace for Murder.
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