Club You to Death by Anuja Chauhan (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📗

than the Turf Club’s. Agreed, the property is on prime location, and the sprawling lawns are beautiful – but they are not as well-maintained as they could be; there is a slight air of seediness to the place – like it is holding out defiantly to a new age, and a new set of rulers.

Very much in sync with this setting is the man who comes hurrying up to greet Bhavani and Padam. Older than Bhavani, with a receding hairline, bowed shoulders, and an absent-minded manner.

‘You must be Bhavani Singh!’ he greets the ACP. ‘Thank you for coming at once! I’m Bhatti, Devendar Bhatti, Club president.’ He rolls his eyes ironically. ‘For my sins!’

‘Haha!’ Bhavani smiles sunnily and grasps the proffered hand. ‘We have often heard of the garden at the DTC, but we did nat expect it to be quite so beautiful, sir!’

Bhatti looks about the garden in a harassed sort of way, blinking his watery eyes. His prominent Adam’s apple and receding chin make him look vaguely hen-like. ‘Yes, yes, there is a gardening committee … they are very … er … committed … but what I want to show you is not very beautiful I’m afraid …’

He leads the two policemen down the driveway, past the Lady Darlington Swimming Bath and the No Ayahs, Servants and Gunmen sign Akash Dogra finds so problematic, and to the gym.

There is a knot of women of all ages and shapes waiting outside this building, toting water-bottles and yoga mats and whispering to each other furiously. But when they see the three men approaching, they quieten, push their sunglasses higher up their noses, and look at them expectantly.

‘Buggered,’ Devendar Bhatti mutters feelingly under his breath.

Bhavani Singh deduces correctly that this remark is not addressed to him.

‘Is that the police, Bhatti?’ a thick-set woman with a bouffant maroon boy-cut asks in an officious voice.

Bhatti stares at her for a moment, clearly unsure of whether to say yes or no. Then, reluctantly, he gives a small, jerky nod.

‘Yes. There’s been a most unfortunate accident, as you perhaps know—’

‘Hullo there,’ Maroon Hair cuts him short, holding out a hand to Bhavani. ‘Good to know you’ve been called in.’

Bhavani Singh grasps her hand, bracing resignedly for a bone-crunching squeeze and receiving exactly that.

‘Madam.’

‘What’s your rank?’ she enquires bluntly.

Padam Kumar steps up. ‘Bhavani sir is the assistant commissioner of police, madam.’

‘Like an army colonel?’ she demands.

‘Like a captain, madam,’ Bhavani says genially.

The lady juts out her maroon lower lip, which matches her maroon hair perfectly. ‘That’s too junior, surely!’

‘Rank doesn’t necessarily mean ability, auntie.’ A slender girl in an ALPHA FEMALE sweatshirt steps forward, and smiles at Bhavani apologetically. ‘Quite the opposite sometimes. Shit rises to the top and all that!’ Then she winces. ‘Oops! No offence, Bhatti uncle!’

Bhatti looks around finickily.

‘Ladies, ACP Singh comes highly recommended by people in the know, and I can say with great confidence that we could not be in better hands.’

Maroon Hair looks sceptical, but changes tack.

‘Are you going to go ahead with the election today, Bhatti?’ she demands. ‘I mean, if somebody has actually died it would be in terrible taste to carry on as if nothing has happened!’ She hesitates, ‘I mean, somebody has died, haven’t they? I know Cookie Katoch and Roshni Aggarwal said so, but …’

She trails off, managing to imply that Cookie Katoch and Roshni Aggarwal really can’t be trusted.

‘Later, madam, later,’ Bhatti says testily. ‘Bambi beta, why don’t all of you get your workout on the jogging track today, huh? Or on the courts? I need to take these gentlemen through.’

He leads the two policemen into the gym, and gingerly indicates the exercise bench, not without a small flourish. ‘And there you have it.’

The old ACP takes in the grisly sight quietly. The staring eyes, the straining chest, the twisted, contused neck.

No matter how many corpses he sees, the first sight of a body divested of the dignifying spark of life always depresses him. It is a jarring reminder that at the end of the day, in spite of all your dreams, worries, ambitions, successes or failures, in spite of all the EMIs you pay and the plans you make – plans of losing weight, plans of taking the kids out for ice cream, plans of revenge, of glory, of world domination – all roads eventually lead here – to a cold, crumpled stillness and the heat of the furnace.

Police folk use a lot of deliberately flippant slang for death – off ho gaya, ticket cut gaya, gauna ho gaya – but they’re just kidding themselves. Seeing a freshly dead corpse is always an uneasy, unsettling, semi-spiritual business.

‘It was quick,’ Bhavani says finally. ‘It looks bad, but it was quick.’

Sliding his hands into his roomy trouser pockets, he turns slowly to scan the gym – the gleaming machines inside, the sprawling lawns outside, visible through the windows.

‘Who’s he?’ he asks.

‘His name is Leo Matthew,’ Bhatti replies. ‘He was found by the two ladies they mentioned outside. Cookie and Roshni.’

‘Looks like the barbell slipped from his hands, crushed his windpipe and broke his neck,’ Bhavani Singh says. ‘It is a fairly common gym accident, unfortunately.’

‘You do weightlifting?’ Bhatti jerks up an eyebrow. ‘You look fit.’

‘Oh no no no no no,’ Bhavani says quickly. ‘We just do eleven minutes of basic exercise – but every single day – for the past forty years. Nothing fancy like this … with so much science and technology and special equipment to avoid injuries. And yet,’ he pauses, ‘and yet, the fellow has still ended up dead.’

‘But he’s fit, sir,’ Padam Kumar says admiringly. ‘What a deadly body he has built!’ He raises an arm and points at the dead man’s abs. ‘One two three four … Seven clearly defined abs!’

‘Yes.’ Bhavani shoots his junior a quelling look and continues to look about the gym. ‘It’s a company called Precor, we see.’

‘It’s very well reputed,’ Bhatti replies. ‘All this equipment cost a quite a packet, I can tell you!’

‘Yes …’