Tune for the Dead: A Detective Dhruv Mystery

By Debashish Irengbam and Anshul Vijayvargiya

One tune. Three listeners. Three grisly suicides. The melody -- an eerie piano symphony -- is the last thing they hear.Leading an unremarkable existence in the sleepy town of Manali, Private Detective Dhruv is jolted into the heart of this case when he is hired by Misha, daughter of the first victim, Raina Awasthi. As he delves deeper into the mystery, threats against his life begin to multiply. It's soon clear that he is dealing with a conspiracy that goes far beyond suicides and murders, and that there is more at stake here than just his life. The shadows are closing in, and Dhruv is all that stands in their way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins India
• Release date: Apr 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9789353029623

Debashish Irengbam

Debashish Irengbam is a Mumbai-based scriptwriter by profession -- and now a novelist as well. He has written episodes for TV crime thrillers and youth-based shows like Dil Dosti Dance, Adaalat, Aahat, Webbed and Gumrah.Charlie Next Door is his second novel with HarperCollins Publishers India, following Me, Mia, Multiple, which was published in 2015.You can find out more about him on www.debashishirengbam.com

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Prologue

T

he downpour this evening was intense; heavy, plump drops pattering so hard over the tin roofs, it almost made it impossible to hear anything inside. It was the kind of rainstorm that chilled your knuckles and forced you to shout out loud to your listener. Not that Raina Awasthi had any complaints about that. For one, he had never been much of a talker. Second, he was seated alone in his cozy wood-panelled office, scribbling something fervently onto a piece of paper at his desk, undisturbed by the loud hammering overhead or the gloomy greyness outside his window. The flecks of silver in his hair and the creases along his forehead and at the corner of his eyes made him look older than his years, especially when he concentrated hard on something, like he was doing now. The lamp at his desk flickered for a second before regaining its dull golden composure.

The few lingering workers of his laundry store would be leaving in a few minutes, having wrapped the last of the washed and ironed clothes into neat bundles. They wouldn’t wish him good evening, or say goodbye. They knew he didn’t like to be disturbed while he was doing his books, or whatever it was he did in the after-hours, locked up inside his office. They never asked.

The phone rang. Mr Awasthi paused, staring at the telephone on his desk as it let out a second, insistent ring. No one called him here at this hour. Not even Misha. More puzzled than curious, he picked it up.

Ten minutes later, Awasthi emerged from his cabin, locking the door behind him. He strode through the dark, silent corridor of his store, stopping at the front desk to pick up an envelope addressed to him. He opened it with nimble fingers, sliding out a CD case with what appeared to be a set of cryptic symbols imprinted on the front cover. His eyes lingered on the cover for a moment, before blinking and going back to their impassive stare as he shuffled out.

He kept the CD case tightly lodged in the crook of his left arm as he locked up his store – a quaint fixture amidst the row of local shops in Old Manali Market. The weather had ensured that the streets were empty with no sign of tourists or pedestrians as far as the eye could see, despite the shower having mellowed to a drizzle.

The sense of general desolation followed Awasthi as he drove through the vacant streets, pausing at a traffic intersection where the lights were red. Miles Davis was playing on his audio system, as always – ‘Blue in Green’. A few seconds later, the song ended, leaving behind the hollowness of an expectant silence. Awasthi glanced sideways at the CD case on his passenger seat, its symbols popping out at him from the otherwise blank cover. Picking it up, he popped it open to reveal a CD with no label inside. After a cursory glance to make sure the lights were still red, he ejected the Miles Davis disc from his player and inserted the CD in its stead.

Leaning back in his seat, Awasthi placed his hands on the wheel, and waited. The audio controls came to life, the seconds ticking away – 00:01 … 00:02 … 00:03…

And then, it began. A slow, almost haunting piano tune, poorly recorded, but melodious nevertheless. One could make out the deftness of the fingers playing it. A woman’s voice joined the symphony, crooning and humming out a wordless melody.

The lights turned green, but Awasthi’s Honda City did not move.

His eyes were fixed straight ahead on the black, glimmering, rain-spattered road, not a flicker betraying the thoughts within his head. The melody went on, turning more intricate with each passing second. Slowly, Awasthi placed his foot on the accelerator. The Honda smoothly passed through the intersection.

The hillside road, usually packed with tourist jeeps jammed and waiting for parking spots, was uncharacteristically empty too, with just the odd bike or jeep passing Awasthi by as he drove up the snaking path. The valley below on his right twinkled with the lights of the hundred or so cottages nestled within. In one of them, his daughter, Misha, would be making preparations for dinner, expecting him to come home soon. The Honda picked up pace, zooming past the sharp turns and curves of the road with a rising urgency.

In a matter of minutes, he was parked at the top of the hill, facing the cliff-side edge about three hundred yards away. On a cloudless day, this would be the perfect vantage point for watching the sun set and dissolve into a dozen brilliant hues of tangerine before sinking into the foothills in the distance. Right now, though, the view past the cliff was nothing but a thick blur of mist and clouds. Even the valley wasn’t visible.

Awasthi’s hands were still on his wheel as he stared dispassionately out his windshield, the wipers waving to and fro rhythmically. The melody played on through the speakers, filling his ears and his car, until with a final crescendo, it came to a halt.

Awasthi took in a deep breath. His hand clutched the gear-stick and shifted it. His foot pressed hard on the accelerator. The back tires of the Honda screeched as the car zoomed ahead, straight towards the edge of the cliff. Any passers-by, if present, would barely have caught a glimpse of the firm, resolute look on Awasthi’s face right before the Honda flew off the cliff without so much as a whisper.

It seemed suspended in the air for a split second, right before diving headlong down the high hill side, crashing hard onto the rocky ground below.

Then, silence. The crickets, which had been startled by the noise, gradually went back to their rhythmic chirping. The wet leaves dripped on calmly as before. An owl lifted itself from a branch and flew away, hooting.

Nestled amidst the jagged, coppery rocks, the battered vehicle lay still.

PART ONE

Manali

1

T

he rain had stopped some time ago, leaving behind the weak wafts of passing clouds that obscured the full moon every now and then. Glowing silver under the intermittent shafts of moonlight, a team of police personnel and medics was helping raise Awasthi’s body carefully on a stretcher from the accident site below.

His daughter, Misha, stood near the jeep, arms crossed tight against her body, her face a numb, pallid picture of shock and grief. A fresh stream of tears flowed down her cheeks as her father’s covered body came into view briefly before being hauled up and carried off by the paramedics. She found herself torn between the impulse to rush past them and catch a glimpse of him, and the fear of what she might see. Her apprehensions won in the end. She couldn’t bear to see him now, not in that state. She wiped her tears and held back her sobs, as Inspector Pathak walked up to her with a sympathetic look on his face.

She could barely focus on his words as he expressed his condolences and stated how it wasn’t unusual for such accidents to occur during the rains. His guess was that he must have driven too close to the edge and the brakes must have given way at the last moment, maybe due to the slippery soil, and that’s what led to the mishap.

Misha shook her head. ‘There’s no reason for him to come up here. He’s never been here before. Why would he drive all the way from town to visit this goddamn cliff?’

Pathak shrugged. ‘That’s a question that would best have been answered by Mr Awasthi. Preliminary investigation shows no sign of any third-party involvement, though. He was driving alone. Besides, what reason could anyone have for harming him?’

‘I don’t know. But something isn’t right,’ she said desperately. ‘I want a full investigation.’

The look of sympathy on his face deepened, much to her chagrin. ‘I understand your grief, ma’am, but we need to be realistic. Without any visible suspects or signs of foul play, what kind of a report will you lodge? And without a report…’

Misha’s face hardened. ‘Fine, then. You wait for your report.’

She turned on her heel and marched off furiously before he could respond with yet another compassionate, if equally unhelpful, stream of words. To hell with them, she thought bitterly. To hell with them all.

Down in the valley, news of the grim demise hadn’t reached the general public, as was evident by the merry mood in The Flying Dragon resto-bar. The ‘resto’ had been added as a formality once fried chicken and anda-bhurji became staples on the bar menu. No one really expected families here, not even of tourists, who would take one disapproving glance at the rather shady exteriors and settle instead for the Chinese restaurant a couple of blocks away. Not that Mathan, the owner and bartender, cared. He had his regulars to take care of the monthly expenses, and a couple of freeloaders he could do without. Two, to be exact. One was that good-for-nothing detective sitting at his favourite spot by the counter as usual, sipping his third not-paid-for Scotch on the rocks for the evening. The other was the pesky cockroach that refused to leave his premises or succumb to his attacks. Even now, the pest was obnoxiously scuttling about in the shadows of his lower cabinet shelves, peeking out every now and then with its single antenna waving in the air, hoping to detect a stray peanut or two, only to get a hard thwack with a rolled-up newspaper instead.

With a satisfied grin, Mathan lifted his weapon of choice and glanced down, only to see a blank space right where the roach had been. Cursing loudly, he got back to his counter, eyes darting to and fro for the intruder, unaware that it was crawling hurriedly over the counter behind his back at that very moment, unseen by all, except for one. An inverted glass clamped down over it, trapping it. For a moment, its captor deliberated. He could hand the pest to Mathan as a friendly offering, perhaps in return for an extended payment period on his tab. The prospects were doubtful, but present nevertheless. God knows he needed it.

However, one look at that pathetic little creature crawling to and fro in confusion, settling at the edge of the glass to stare back at him, and Dhruv decided otherwise. Call it a moment of compassion. Or solidarity. There was something about that little thing in there with one missing antenna – damaged, trapped, yet fighting – that got to Dhruv. What it was exactly, he was too sloshed to figure out. Oh, but he got it, all right. Yes, sir.

Moving swiftly and noiselessly, he picked up a small zip-locked pouch of peanuts nearby and opened it, emptying the contents onto his bowl. Sliding the glass off the counter, he gently plopped the cockroach into the pouch and zipped it shut. By the time Mathan turned around, Dhruv had made two tiny holes in the pouch for oxygen, inserted it into his shirt pocket, and plastered a sweet, harmless smile on his face.

‘What ya smiling for?’ barked Mathan.

Dhruv shrugged, sipping carefully at his peg. Fuming, Mathan went back to cleaning glasses. He never quite knew why he detested the sight of that man so much. Granted, Dhruv had never caused any direct harm to him, other than the rising tab in his name that was on the verge of entering the five-digit territory now. Yet, there was something about him that he couldn’t stand. Maybe it was the cocky grin that was always plastered on his face, like a co-conspirator eyeing you from afar. Or maybe, it was just his face. He could have been in his twenties or thirties. The boyish unkemptness of his features gave nothing away – thick brows, deep-set eyes, strong Grecian nose coupled with what appeared to be a permanent five-o-clock shadow. It was a face that could have been handsome once upon a time, had it not been marred somewhat by the bags under his eyes and his vapid pallor.

He glanced back to see the familiar hungry-puppy expression on Dhruv’s face, the empty glass clutched delicately between his fingers.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ he growled.

‘Oh, come on, Mathy. You know I’m gonna pay up once I get my next case.’

‘Well, déjà bloody vu, ’cause I’ve been hearing that bullshit for two months now. It’s simple, detective: pay up or get out.’

He reached down to take Dhruv’s glass away, only to find the glass tightly entrenched in his hand. The bugger had a much stronger grasp than he expected.

‘Don’t make a scene, buddy,’ warned Mathan.

‘You believe in true love, Mathy?’ slurred Dhruv.

‘What?’

‘Love. Ever lost your heart to someone?’

‘Lost your marbles instead, it seems.’

‘Just answer the question, Mathy, and I will leave. Ever fallen in love with someone?’

‘No, I haven’t. Now get—’

‘So this thing you got going with Havaldar Jha’s wife … it’s just a fling?’

Even in the dim magenta lighting of the bar, Dhruv could see the bartender’s face pale by a few shades.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he snarled.

‘Well, for the past couple of days, Mrs Jha has been walking almost two hundred meters every day from her house towards a distant shop to buy eggs, even though there is an egg store right beneath her home,’ said Dhruv casually. ‘Would it have anything to do with the fact that your home falls in the way?’

Losing all sense of propriety, Mathan lunged forward and grabbed Dhruv’s collar, enraged. The tendons in his massive forearms flexed dangerously. A few patrons glanced up with curiosity, before returning to their drinks with a blurred sense of pity for the unfortunate victim. Standing at a little above 5'10 with an athletic frame, Dhruv wasn’t puny by any standards, unless of course, you compared him to the 6'4 beefy freak of nature who had his collar bunched up in his fist now. Dhruv kept his calm smile intact.

‘You ought to think twice before making such allegations there, detective,’ hissed Mathan. ‘Who knows how hurt you might get if they turn out to be untrue. Besides, who’s gonna believe the words of a drunkard like you?’

‘I’m glad you bring that up,’ said Dhruv cheerily.

He coolly detached his collar from the barman’s grip and smoothed it before reaching into his satchel and procuring an envelope.

‘What’s this?’ asked Mathan, as Dhruv handed the envelope to him.

‘Well, you know what they say,’ said Dhruv in the same cheery tone. ‘A picture is worth a thousand words.’

Mathan opened the envelope and reached in to take out a