Before You Breathe

By Tanushree Podder

The small and peaceful hill town of Ramsar wakes up to mysterious break-ins on two consecutive days. While the first one takes place at the local doctor's clinic, the second is at the residence of the town's latest and most affluent resident - Shekhar Sharma.Inexplicably, nothing has been stolen in either case. The mysterious incidents confounded the police as well as Ramsar's residents.And before one mystery can be solved, another turns up, with a death of a stranger whom no one can identify.And so begins a game of cat-and-mouse between the criminal and the town's resident amateur sleuth, Colonel Arjun H Acharya.Who is intent on wreaking havoc in Ramsar? And can Colonel Acharya find out the truth before time runs out?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins India
• Release date: Apr 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9789353029418

Tanushree Podder

A well-known travel writer and novelist, Tanushree is passionate about travelling and writing. Climate change and the environment are of special interest to her. Tanushree enjoys writing in various genres. This has led to her writing in historical, military, crime, and paranormal genres for adults and children. She has written many non-fiction books before moving to fiction and has published 15 novels. Among her books are Nurjahan's Daughter, Boots Belts Berets, On the Double, Escape from Harem, Solo in Singapore, A Closetful of Skeletons, Before you Breathe, No Margin for Error, The Teenage Diary of Rani Laxmibai, The Girls in Green, Spooky Stories and An Invitation to Die. More Spooky Stories is her 16th book. Three of her books, Boots Belts Berets, A Closetful of Skeletons, and The Girls in Green, are being adapted into web series.

Book preview

1

Sunday

It was past midnight. In the tiny Himalayan town of Ramsar, a lone figure hurried across the street, drawing his coat tighter around himself to ward off the chill in the air. In the distance, the mountains loomed like mammoth phantoms.

The night was silent and dark, with the moon hidden behind heavy clouds. Not a soul stirred. The inhabitants of the small, hill town, safe in their homes, continued to slumber. Outside, the wind strengthened in force as it raced through the street, lashing at the houses in its wake.

The tall man stood still in the shadows. He tucked his chin into his muffler and thrust his gloved hands deeper into the warmth of his pockets, his breath forming spirals of vapour in the air.

Casting a cautious look around the dully lit street, he crossed over to the other side and stood before a two-storeyed house, the clinic-cum-residence of the local doctor. The house was located at the far end of a winding lane, beyond a curve that shielded it from the view of neighbouring houses. The location made things easier for the man, as did the moonless night.

Casting another furtive look around him, the man vaulted over the low boundary wall of the house and approached the main door on the ground floor. He extracted a small torch from the pocket of his coat and examined the lock on the door in the thin beam of light. His lips curled, amused at the sight of the flimsy metal masquerading as a lock. He produced a paper-clip from another of his many pockets, straightened it with the precision of a neurosurgeon and went to work on the lock. His long, gloved fingers moved deftly, easily. They had done this before.

Minutes later, having sheathed his mud-spattered shoes in a pair of polythene bags, he slipped into the clinic and bolted the door from inside. Leaving a tell-tale track of shoeprints was not a part of his plan, but a light shower in the evening had left the ground muddy. Thankfully, he had come prepared.

Once inside, the man took stock of the place in the narrow beam of light from his torch. The entrance led to a small waiting room, which in turn led into the space that was being used as the consulting room. An adjoining room, with a counter, served as the dispensary, he noted. Wasting no time, the intruder walked through the waiting room, past the half a dozen chairs and a low table with some magazines scattered on it, to the consulting room.

Twisting the handle, he pushed open the door and entered the room, which was furnished with a large table, a swivel chair for the doctor, a couple of chairs for visitors, an examination bed and a revolving metal stool for the patient. The wall opposite the doctor’s chair was adorned with a painting of the snow-capped Himalayan range.

He pulled open the drawers of the table and inspected the contents. Save for a scattering of pens, a couple of medical instruments and some stationery, there was nothing of value to attract his attention.

A small cupboard and a filing cabinet stood in one corner of the room. The man tried the handle of the cupboard and discovered that it was unlocked. Stacked neatly inside were boxes of medicines and medical instruments. The boxes were clearly labelled and segregated into various categories. Once again, there was nothing of interest for him there.

Finally, he turned to the filing cabinet. Like the cupboard, the cabinet was arranged neatly and methodically. Smiling in the darkness, he thanked whoever was responsible for the immaculate filing system. His brows furrowed in concentration as his quick fingers rifled through the folders. It took him less than five minutes to find what he was looking for. He extracted the file, took out his phone and shot a series of pictures of the pages before putting it back in its place within the cabinet.

Exactly seven minutes from the time of his entry, the intruder emerged from the clinic. On his way out, he removed the polythene casing from his shoes and dropped them in the trash can sitting just outside the entrance. Then, moving stealthily, he vaulted over the low wall and melted into the darkness once again.

2

Monday

After a chilly night, the sun ripped away the veil of mist with its cache of brilliant orange rays, ushering a new dawn. Soon, the snow-clad mountain peaks were on fire and a sheet of golden light covered the earth like warm honey spread on toasted bread. The morning dew sparkled like tiny diamonds across the valley, and the residents of Ramsar stirred out of their beds, ready to begin the day.

Sunil Rawat, the portly young doctor, entered his consulting room and looked around, puzzled. It was just the way he had left it. He had rushed down to his clinic earlier than usual upon being summoned by the cleaning woman, who had arrived to find the main door ajar, the padlock hanging open from the door latch. It was evident that someone had pried it open the previous night. Had a burglar entered the clinic?

Dr Rawat quickly checked to see what might have been stolen. His first instinct was to ascertain if the small cache of expensive medicines in the cupboard was safe, and it did appear that it was all still there. He heaved a sigh of relief. Scratching his day-old stubble, the doctor inspected rest of the room, but it was difficult to tell if anything of value had been taken by the burglar. After instructing the maid not to touch anything, he called the local police station.

Ten minutes later, Dr Rawat was joined by Assistant Superintendent of Police Timothy Thapa and Constable Sharad Pant (popularly known as Shirt Pant). Attracted by the arrival of the police, curious passers-by soon began gathering before the clinic. The presence of police at a venue indicated crime and crime never failed to interest people. As news spread more people joined. The doctor was a popular man and everyone wanted to know why the police were at his clinic.

‘Don’t you have anything better to do than gawk like fools?’ Shirt Pant scolded the onlookers in his usual pompous manner. It was not often that he got the opportunity to throw his weight around.

Embarrassed by the policeman’s rebuke, some of the bystanders moved away to share the news with their family and friends. There was nothing the Ramsarians loved better than an earful of gossip over a steaming cup of tea. It was not often that unusual events took place in their sleepy town; an incident of this kind was gossip-mill fodder, to be chewed and digested over a long time.

Inside the clinic, Tim Thapa, the brawny, blue-eyed police inspector, conducted a meticulous examination of the premises. He went through the rooms one at a time, making a note of things and hunting for clues with a fine toothcomb.

‘Can you guess what the burglar was looking for?’ he asked the doctor. ‘I don’t suppose you keep money or valuables in the clinic.’

‘Apart from some expensive medicines in my cupboard and basic medical equipment, there is hardly anything that can be sold for money.’

‘A burglar will steal drugs only if he is an addict desperately looking for a fix. The petty crooks in Ramsar hardly have any pharmaceutical knowledge and are certainly not the kind to raid medicine cabinets. We’ll need to conduct a more thorough investigation. My guess is that either this thief is new in town and this was a random breaking-and-entering or it was someone looking for something specific.’

‘I think that’s a logical assumption,’ agreed Dr Rawat. ‘The question is, what could he have been looking for if he were indeed seeking something specific?’

Tim, who was dusting the door knobs and other metal surfaces for fingerprints, turned to look at Rawat, ‘That’s what we need to find out.’

Tim was still at work when Colonel Arjun H. Acharya (the ‘H’ in his name stood for Hercule) strode into the clinic, having heard about the curious case from a neighbour. Three years ago, when he retired at the age of fifty-four after a glorious career in the army, the colonel had decided to follow his first love: sleuthing. And although he lived in Ramsar, a small hamlet that had the distinction of having one of the lowest crime rates in the country, the colonel had managed to assist the local police in solving the few burglaries that had taken place in the peaceful town. He had even sunk his teeth into a couple of high-profile murder cases that had baffled the police. Solving those had really cemented the colonel’s Poirotian reputation.

The colonel’s tall figure, military-bearing, buzz-cut and Clark Gablesque moustache set him apart from other men. Flamboyant in his double-breasted blazer and blue trousers with a maroon silk scarf enhancing his rakish appearance, the colonel was a familiar figure around town. The imperceptible limp in his right leg, the result of an accident, added to his personality as did the customized cane he carried. The polished rosewood cane topped by an eagle head was almost like a fashion accessory.

‘Good morning, colonel,’ Tim greeted. ‘You didn’t waste any time, I can see.’

‘Well, the Ramsar grapevine is pretty efficient. I heard that the doc’s clinic had been visited by an intruder, so I decided to check. Did you find anything to substantiate the rumour?’

‘We don’t know for sure but the lock has been picked and the front door was open,’ Tim updated the colonel. ‘The doc confirms that nothing of value has been taken from the medicine cabinet. The material in the dispensary also seems intact. I have not found any fingerprints, though.’

‘Were you short of patients that you invited a burglar to the clinic?’ the colonel ribbed the doctor, who was a friend and a regular bridge partner.

Humming under his breath, the colonel proceeded to inspect the room. He went through the waiting room, dispensary and consulting room, his eyes scanning each object. Ambling over to the filing cabinet, he began riffling through the files. He looked at a few folders on the top shelf and let out a low whistle.

‘Don’t you use a computer to maintain records, Doc?’ he remarked.

‘With constant power outages in the town, I find it easier to put them in the filing cabinet,’ replied Rawat, joining the colonel near the cabinet.

‘I think that’s wise,’ Tim commented. ‘It’s a tried and tested method. No virus, no corrupt files and no inexplicable disappearance of data.’

‘You have been visited by an educated burglar, Doc.’ The colonel pursed his lips.

‘Educated—’ Tim raised his brows in surprise.

‘Why else would the burglar be interested in a filing cabinet? Most burglars look for money and jewellery, but this intruder went through a doctor’s files and folders.’

‘What makes you think that?’ asked Tim. Walking across to the colonel, he studied the filing cabinet once more. The folders seemed undisturbed.

‘I think the doc will be able to reply to that. Can you check if the folders are placed the way you put them?’ the colonel asked.

The doctor pulled out a few folders and shook his head. ‘Their arrangement has changed. Some of them are facing the wrong way. I never place them like that.’

‘That’s because the person who handled them put them back in a hurry. He didn’t have the time to observe your method or arrange them in proper order.’

‘But why would the intruder be looking at the files?’ the doctor wanted to know. ‘He could have stolen the expensive medicines. Even the stethoscope or sphygmomanometer would have fetched him some money.’

‘That’s right. It is difficult to believe that a person would pry open the lock to go through the filing cabinet when there is a cabinet full of expensive medicines right there,’ remarked Tim as he dusted the table top with powder and then used a clear adhesive tape to lift the prints on its surface and photograph them. He carried out the same procedure on the filing cabinet and medicine cupboard handles, all of which seemed to have been wiped clean.

‘I doubt that you will find any fingerprints other than those of the doctor and his staff,’ commented the colonel. ‘Do you think any of the files are missing from the cabinet?’ he directed the question at the doctor.

‘Well, it’s difficult to say that without checking them carefully. I haven’t had a chance to do that yet,’ replied Dr Rawat. ‘It might be difficult to spot if particular paper is missing from a folder.’

‘I assume you maintain a folder for each of your patients. You must have a couple of hundred at least, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Yes, I do have a folder for each patient, where I keep a record of their ailments and treatments.’

In the meantime, Shirt Pant, having gone through the consulting room and dispensary, went out and surveyed the area. He poked through the trash can outside the entrance. ‘Sir! There are a couple of muddy polythene bags in the trash,’ he shouted excitedly.

Within moments, he was joined by the others.

‘There, sir, the soiled bags are in there.’ Puffed up with importance, Shirt Pant pointed at the offending articles. ‘Should I take them out?’

‘Wait! Let me have a look first,’ Tim replied. He looked at the assortment. Turning to the doctor, he remarked, ‘Well, I am surprised. I thought you were crusading against the use of plastic.’

‘I do not encourage the use of plastic. Apart from the original packaging of medicines, we do not use polythene or plastic in the clinic,’ Dr Rawat retorted in righteous indignation.

Tim nodded at Shirt Pant, who fished out the bags from the wastepaper basket. ‘These are caked with mud,’ he remarked. Studying them, he continued, ‘Interestingly, the plastic bags are quite clean on the outside but dirty inside.’ He handed over the offending items to the constable, who dropped and sealed them in a zip-lock bag. ‘It was raining last night. I think the burglar’s shoes were muddy and he wore the bags over the shoes to avoid leaving footprints on the floor.’

‘So, everything we know about the burglar points to the fact that we are dealing with a cautious and intelligent person. My guess is that he isn’t a local, and that this is no ordinary burglary,’ said the colonel.

‘It would seem so,’ agreed Tim. ‘I have been dealing with the local thieves and they are neither meticulous not intelligent enough to sheath their shoes. Also, they would rather burgle a liquor shop or a house. Doc’s filing cabinet is of no use to them. This is definitely not a regular burglary. The burglar is most probably an outsider.’

‘Tim, the only way to find out if it was an outsider is to check the hotels and guest houses. This being a remote place with no conveyance available at night, it is likely that the person stayed in town last night. I think we should check the hotel registers for visitors to Ramsar.’

‘I have informed my chief about this burglary.’

‘And what did your chief have to say?’

‘He was apoplectic. You’re becoming negligent, Tim Thapa!’ Tim mimicked his superior. The crime rate in Ramsar has steadily been going up. In the last six months, there have been two murders and two thefts, one in the liquor shop and the other in the jewellery shop. This will be the third. Also, why would a burglar take the trouble of breaking in and not steal anything? Something must be missing. You would do well to examine the place carefully. I expect a full report by noon.

‘Doc, you would be well-advised to greet the DSP with a glass of buttermilk and some antacid tablets,’ chortled the colonel.

‘Don’t you worry. I will make adequate arrangement for his welcome,’ responded the doctor.

The deputy superintendent of police, Jung Bahadur Singh, popularly known as JBS, was the butt of countless jokes in Ramsar. Although a man with a strong sense of integrity, he was also bull-headed and stubborn. No matter what their social or official status, the man didn’t bend the rules for anyone. He approached his work with complete, unrelenting honesty, if not intelligence, and his uncompromising stand had earned him many enemies over the years. It had also resulted in frequent transfers. He was currently stationed at Almora.

‘I hope he isn’t driving down to Ramsar,’ mumbled the doctor, who was already feeling the stress of the ongoing investigation and didn’t need the added pressure of the DSP’s loud aggression in the mix.

‘You are in luck.’ Tim smiled. ‘He said he is rather busy at the moment. I have been trusted to handle the matter for the time being, albeit with many stern warnings about the consequences of slackness.’

3

Once a favourite haunt of British officers in search of salubrious climes, Ramsar had three winding roads – one leading into the town, another leading out of it and a third leading into the market.

A midsized hospital, school and a buzzing community centre stood as milestones on the road leading into town. On one side of the road that led out of the town was the entrance to a nine-hole golf course (a legacy of the British), an inspection bungalow (another British legacy) and a ramshackle movie hall, along with a ‘multi-cuisine’ restaurant called Tasty Bites that served only local fare. A desolate patch of land and a derelict Victorian club house (yet another leftover from the British Raj) occupied the other side. Long past its days of grandeur, the club was now populated by owls and bats.

Brightly painted houses with equally brightly painted wooden doors and windows stood pell-mell on the steep hill that was crowned by an ancient temple. These were connected by narrow paths that spread over the hillside like a network of veins criss-crossing a pulsating heart. The houses spilled down the hill towards the pebbly bank of a gurgling stream set against a thick forest.

The bazaar was a maze of tiny establishments nestled on the hill at various elevations in a higgledy-piggledy manner. The uneven stone paths between them had been worn smooth over the ages by footfalls. The shops sold basic, everyday goods and groceries. One had to travel an hour and a half on treacherous roads to Almora if one wanted to buy anything out of the ordinary. The bazaar road was dotted with several tea stalls that served the kind of hot, milky brew that was perfectly suited to the climate, and made for a great accompaniment to the gossip that the locals relished so much.

In keeping with the size of the town, the precinct at Ramsar was proportionately small, with just three people to sort out local matters such as petty crime, drunken misdemeanours and squabbles between neighbours. There had been just a couple of murder cases in the last decade but they had both involved outsiders. The locals were a peaceful lot and so on most days the police had very little to do.

The mysterious burglary at the clinic changed the situation, however. Tim, young and restless for action, had anyway bored of the long period of inaction, and was now raring to solve a crime. But so far, with his twenty-four hours almost up, he had made absolutely no progress at all. The burglary seemed to be devoid of motive, clues and suspects. Surprisingly, the colonel hadn’t come up with any answers either.

The excitement generated in the town by the mysterious burglary had not yet settled when a call to the police station the next morning stirred up matters in a big way. There had been another break-in, this time at the Willows.

A sprawling bungalow surrounded by a significant acreage, the Willows belonged to Shekhar Sharma, a rich businessman who had, five years ago, decided to give up his flourishing business in New Delhi for the peace and quiet of Ramsar. Sharma had paid an enormous amount of money to buy the bungalow, and his arrival had been an exciting event for the locals. They had watched in awe as the house had transformed under the stewardship of its new owner – the cobwebs were swept away, the gardens replanted