It was Suzy Wuzy who informed the police about Mrs Krishnamurthi. The beat constable arrived on his bike a few minutes after her call. It was already dark, around 8 pm. This particular lane in Greater Kailash-II was deep in the shadows. Suzy and he had a quick chat near her gate and then he sped off.

Vikas was a tall cop from Rajasthan, who had endeared himself to all the older people in the colony because he regularly checked up on them. He had an easygoing, affable manner and was happy to chat while being fed samosas or kachoris, kaju barfis or jalebis, Marie biscuits and nankhatais, till his cellphone began to buzz and he would have to apologize and rush off but only after he had eaten enough, even taken a second helping, and had the mandatory cup of tea.

The police jeep had arrived late last night with its siren blaring and the light on the roof revolving crazily. Mrs M had pulled her bedroom curtains apart and stood behind them, peeping out at the house across the road. She saw two older, perhaps more senior police officers get out of the jeep, hoist up pants that had sunk below their big bellies and begin talking animatedly with Vikas. The street lights bounced off their belt buckles and the stars on their shoulders.

She opened the latch of the window, straining to hear the conversation but they had already entered Mrs Krishnamurthi’s house. She was one of many at their windows that night. Anxious and curious onlookers of all ages. Could it be that the old lady who hadn’t been seen for more than two days had died? Was that why the cops were here? Was it old age, suicide or…murder?

A loud banging came from Mrs Krishnamurthi’s house. Maybe they were breaking down the front door. The sound of it reverberated in the night air, frightening her as she imagined the scene inside. Something was definitely wrong. An ambulance drew up at the gate and two orderlies in white lab coats rushed in with a stretcher. By now the lights of many houses had come on and people were standing on their balconies staring at the scene. Initially, they were silent and then they began greeting one another in polite tones, uneasy to talk immediately of what they were witnessing.

The next morning, Mrs M stood anxiously at her gate, holding her granddaughter Aditi’s hand. Then Raunaq’s autorickshaw came round the corner. Thank God! Otherwise ,she would have had to wake her son Dhruv who lived downstairs to drop Aditi to school. His wife was a top corporate executive who lived in Mumbai, and flew in for a weekend every month. Since Billy had passed away, Mrs M had helped with Aditi’s morning preschool routine.

“Kya hua? Why so late?” Mrs M asked Raunaq.

“Just a slight hassle at home.” He took the child’s bottle from her and slung it over a rod.

“All well?”

“Yes Aunty ji, now I better rush, Sahil and the other boys are already yelling for me.”

Mrs M looked after the departing autorickshaw. Sweet young man, so dependable, making a living for himself in Delhi. And then her eyes travelled to Mrs Krishnamurthi’s balcony and her abandoned plants. Who would take care of them now?

She thought back to last night. To the sight of her neighbour’s body being taken away. A diminutive frame lay under the white sheet, hardly filling the stretcher. A silence of fear and mistrust hung over the lane in which she had lived for so many years. And then suddenly the ambulance’s siren was switched on, shattering the silence. What was the point, Mrs M thought to herself – there was no emergency any longer, no way of bringing Mrs Krishnamurthi back to life – she had died over forty-eight hours ago, most probably. But the entire neighbourhood listened intently to the siren as it faded into the distance. Then people quietly retreated into their own homes, locked their windows and ensured that all the three locks on their front doors were secured for the night. Some muttered silent prayers as they turned away. Mrs M was one of the last to go in. She looked at her friend Mrs Krishnamurthi’s house and a cold dread came over her.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the many images of the previous night, and returned to her bedroom.

The geyser was on, her clothes laid out on the bed. She had a plan for the day – meet Shadaab at the station at 9.40, then the 9.46 metro to Mandi House. Ah! The importance of keeping yourself busy and being needed, especially as you age.

Raunaq’s thoughts raced as he made his way through the traffic, dodging the big school buses.

He hadn’t had a chance to tell Rudy about what he had overheard the previous morning that had unnerved him. He knew who Shobhana was – Pratap’s extremely wealthy memsahib. Where he had worked for many years. Till she became too overbearing. Raunaq had heard the stories – how she let her pallau slip in the back of the car when she was drunk, her two ex-husbands, her very grown-up children, her abusive language… Pratap often referred to her as “Danger Ma’am”. It had been a joke, till now.

Should he call Rudy or was it better to tell him face to face?

Excerpted with permission from The Artful Murders: A Ragini Malhotra Mystery, Feisal Alkazi, Speaking Tiger Books.