Four men were dead in the same office – their hearts gave up at the same time. They were Vuvuzula Sankatram Reddy, a bankrupt media magnate; his brother, Velveti Rompy Reddy; his son, BJ Reddy; and the media house’s human resources head, Sainath Rao.
“Sainath was apparently found with his, er, how should I say this ... his little fellow inside a tin of paayasam,” said GP Shrivastava, director general (DG) of the Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel (SVP) National Police Academy.
“Little fellow?” Assistant Commissioner of Police (ACP) Mona Ramteke asked. “Oh!” she added hastily when she realised what the DG meant.
“Yes.”
Mona’s stomach rumbled mildly in protest. She had been on her way to the canteen for lunch when she was intercepted by summons to the DG’s office. She now stood at attention in his office, facing a desk that was cluttered with police pennants.
DG Shrivastava, leaning back in his chair, peered at her through his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows and his oversized tortoiseshell glasses. What he saw was a small and wiry woman with a boy’s haircut. Her complexion was a shade darker than wheatish. He scoffed. She is a Dalit, he thought, probably in the force through reservation.
“Simultaneous fatal heart attacks,” DG Shrivastava said.
“Mrs Sharmila Rao, the chief minister’s daughter, wants you to look into it.”
“Of course, sir,” Mona said. “But why me?” Mona was curious because this was Hyderabad, not Mumbai where she had spent most of her career. She was in the city for a six-week training, after which her recent promotion from inspector to ACP would be formalised. She knew little about Hyderabad and had never met the chief minister or his daughter. In fact, she knew barely anything about the state police and was yet to meet the city’s police commissioner.
“How do I know?” DG Shrivastava said, taking off his glasses. “The Reddys are an influential lot. Or were, I guess. Their newspaper, Deccan Testament, is a big deal here. Highest print run in the state and the families are influential. Their deaths will rattle the elite.”
“Sir.”
“You’re a high-profile investigator back home, but here, in Hyderabad, you are an outsider. That might count for something, for the powers that be at least. You are probably perfect for the job, whatever it might be. I’m sure I don’t need to know. It’s a complicated mess, but I am confident that you’ll figure it out as you go along.”
“Understood, sir.”
“You will not be officially associated with the investigation, but you will assist it. Or be an advisor, or a consultant, whatever you want to call it. A sub-inspector will assist you.”
“Sir.”
“You will report to the local ACP, Chittla Srinivas Kumar, who in turn reports to DCP Chittla Suresh Kumar. They’re brothers. Messy.”
“Sir.”
“Off you go now. No time for lunch. Try to get to the Deccan Testament office before the bodies are taken away for post-mortem examinations. Now.”
“Sir.”
Mona saluted and departed, still wondering why Sharmila Rao, the chief minister’s daughter, had asked for her. Shouldn’t the minister himself make the request? She left the DG’s office and was soon in the parking area, where she mounted her Royal Enfield and rode out of the lush campus. She turned on to the Hyderabad–Bengaluru highway and headed to Secunderabad, about 40 minutes away depending on the traffic. Why hadn’t the request come from the chief minister’s son or his nephew, who are both important state ministers?
Perhaps it was because Sharmila Rao knew Srividya Suryawanshi, whose father was a powerful politician in Maharashtra. Sharmila and Srividya had both sat in the previous Parliament and were friends. Sharmila was now in the state assembly as a member of the legislative council. Srividya had probably advised her to rope Mona into the probe.
Mona focused on the unruly traffic as she passed Hussain Sagar Lake. The drivers here were worse than Mumbai or Pune, or even Aurangabad. It was complete chaos, as if all the crazy motorcyclists were on the road. She turned right at the Clock Tower and reached the opaque black gates of the Deccan Testament office. She honked her way past the frazzled watchmen and stopped at the two- wheeler parking area.
Mona took off her helmet and was immediately hit by an acrid smell emanating from a nearby drain. She quickly wore a mask that had become a permanent fixture thanks to the COVID-19 pandemic. A tall and strapping dark-skinned woman in a khaki uniform and peaked cap approached her. Her name tag read Pavani Reddy. She, too, wore a mask.
“Jai Hind, ACP Ma’am. Welcome to Secunderabad,” Sub-Inspector Pavani said, standing at attention and saluting.
“Jai Hind, SI Pavani. Thank you, and at ease.”
Pavani leaned forward and whispered, “A lot of the sirs are annoyed with you for taking over the investigation, but they dare not say anything.”
“Is that so?” Mona asked.
“They’re afraid the chief minister’s family will send them on a long deputation to the Indo-Tibetan Border Police.”
What else is new, Mona mused.
ACP Mona and SI Pavani climbed the steps to enter a four-storeyed, old-world, off-white building. They passed a defunct Linotype machine on display behind a glass screen, as if was in a museum, and crossed the foyer. To their left was the entrance to the Classifieds department, where she detected barely any activity. They marched straight to the reception where a lady sat with her head wrapped in a black dupatta, leaving just her sparkling eyes visible. She stood up and gaily sang, “Good morning, ma’am.” A watchman sprayed sanitiser on Mona’s hands, but when he tried to scan her temperature she clicked her tongue sharply, making him step back towards the wall.
Excerpted with permission from Death in the Deccan, Aditya Sinha, HarperCollins India.
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