“My grandmother was eighty, but she was fit as a fiddle. She ran marathons and held her own against twenty-year-olds. I can’t believe someone stabbed her. Why?” Hariesh Pancham said, dabbing a moist, monogrammed handkerchief at the corner of his eyes. “It’s such a senseless act.”
He took a deep breath, fighting for composure. “After Ma died, Nani raised me while running her company, never missing a PTA meeting and always hitting her quarterly goals of crores. She was always ready for a hug and the occasional slap too.”
Hariesh stopped to blow his nose, his head resting back on the teal, pure leather sofa. Satyadarshi paused her furious note-taking – Laxmi Pancham, aged 80, stabbed to death – and looked up. Everywhere she looked, elegant opulence screamed its presence throughout the rectangular, plush-carpeted room. French windows lined one side of the room, opening onto the verdant terrace and a greenhouse.
Paintings hung on most walls, and Baccarat crystals adorned every available surface. In the bar behind her, the precariously hanging wine glasses probably cost more than her age-old apartment in the Hindu Colony.
Not really. Every crack in our flat is filled with memories. Every stain has a history. No Baccarat crystal could match that.
“My persistent pressure on the police has had no effect; the case remains frustratingly cold, and they have already relegated it to the back burner. Who cares about an eighty-year-old’s death? She was due for it anyway, is their rationale.
“That is the reason I hired your agency. My CFO recommended your services and was impressed by your sensitive handling of her case. And of course, my assistant researched you and your prior connection to the police, along with your stellar reputation there despite your exit, is definitely a feather in your hat.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Any potential business enemies, Mr Pancham? Or personal ones?”
“Plenty for me. But Nani no longer played a role in the company, so it just doesn’t add up. If anyone wanted to harm me, my immediate family would’ve been targeted, not her. What’s the point of killing an ex-employee? She left the company decades ago, devoting herself to charitable work. That’s why her murder makes no sense.”
“What about your father?”
“Papa was an Air Force pilot. I was six when he lost his life during a rescue mission gone wrong. Within a year, I had lost my mother to a brain aneurysm, and my paternal grandparents had passed on before I was born. Nani was all I had left. She meant everything to me … Everything,” his voice cracked at the last word.
“When and how did you come to know about your grandmother’s death?”
“When Nani missed her lunch date with her marathon folks, they were suspicious. She is usually the first on the scene, and when they called her mobile, there was no answer. And it so happened that the last weekend of every month is our staff’s holiday. My grandmother’s … the … event … “ His composure cracked, a visible shudder running through him. Without a word, Satyadarshi handed him a glass of water and looked away, giving him the dignity to gather himself.
“I’m sorry. I’m still trying to come to terms with what happened to her. My Nani was murdered during that week, while she was alone in our apartment.”
I wonder if the killer knew about the staff holiday?
Hariesh picked up steam. “My wife, Sunanda, and our kids were in Paris for a fashion show, and I was in Shanghai when Nandini, my assistant, called me about what had happened. The police found her in the bedroom, gagged and hogtied. She was stabbed seven times! Seven!
“I was spared the sight, but the crime scene photographs are enough to haunt me for the rest of my life.”
“Did the police find anything of relevance? And what about the CCTV footage? I spotted one in the lobby downstairs and a few more in your apartment as I came in.”
Hariesh nodded. “The police said no DNA was left at the site except Nani’s and, of course, ours. The killer likely used gloves and bleached everything he touched. They found traces of the chemical in her room and other places. About the CCTV in the lobby, it hasn’t been functioning – out of commission for over a month despite my complaints to the chairman. It’s sheer apathy from our society. After the incident, they replaced all the cameras, but how does it help me now? Or our case?”
Hariesh took a shaky breath, regret lacing his words. “The ones in our apartment captured a grainy picture of a figure dressed completely in black with a ski mask over his head. Last month, a rare power surge affected the resolution of the cameras, and this glitch reduced their picture quality. I was going to get it replaced, but … If only I had done it, we could’ve captured more details of the killer. Probably captured him, too.” His lips curled down. “Nandini will send over the CCTV recordings to you, however useless they are.”
“May I examine her bedroom where it happened?”
“Of course.” Hariesh patted his chest and withdrew a cheque from the sky-hued pocket of his coat. He handed it to Satyadarshi. “This is 50 per cent of your fees upfront. There’s a bonus if you identify the murderer before the police do. At the rate they’re going, you’ll earn it in no time. I’ll do anything to catch her murderer. That’s the least I can do.” Determination glinted in his black, beady eyes.
Satyadarshi pocketed the cheque. Hello, money. My best friend. And who uses cheques anymore?
As soon as she could extract her 5 feet 8 inch frame from the clutches of the suspiciously squishy sofa, they moved to a large, airy chamber painted in a soft shade of blue.
“I haven’t touched anything since the day of the murder. Once the police wrapped up their forensic examinations, my staff just cleared the residual debris they left behind. Everything else is as it was on that fateful day.” He averted his eyes from the stained carpet. “I wanted to preserve the scene. I’ve also seen the CSI shows.”
He looked around the place. “I want to stay here, but Sunanda and the kids refuse to live in this apartment anymore. I understand why, though. It makes us feel vulnerable – attacked in our own house.”
“Was anything missing from the room? Did the killer take any valuables?” Satyadarshi asked, bringing his attention back to the room.
“No. Besides the upturned chair and blood, he didn’t disturb anything. Nani’s credit and debit cards, along with cash, were untouched. Not even the jewellery she wore!”
Satyadarshi scanned the space. A wall-to-wall bookshelf dominated much of it, and a ladder-cum-chair was propped against the rack. A peacock-blue easy chair with a matching ottoman completed the cosy picture. Satyadarshi could almost imagine Laxmi seated on it, reading a book with her feet dangling over the ottoman, with a cup of tea by her side.
Heck, I can imagine myself doing that.
Excerpted with permission from The Seventh Swar, Natasha Sharma, Pan Macmillan India.
