‘That’s useful, Rajan. It fits in well with what I have observed. What about Abbas?’
‘He’s an interesting bloke. There seems to be little doubt that he is a crook of some sort. But what sort is the question. The police have been keeping an eye on him, but have not been able to lay their hands on anything to corner him. His resort loses money hand over fist, but he still runs it. Keeps a staff of about fifteen people, despite having very few visitors. Always deals in cash, it appears, and is never short of it. Something smells fishy there, for sure.’
‘Any talk of drugs?’ Athreya asked, and went on to narrate what he had overheard.
‘Bhaskar may have something there,’ Rajan said slowly.
‘They don’t say anything openly, but what you say seems consistent with the local police’s reactions when asked about Abbas. The resort may well be a cover for shady activities.’
‘Anything on Murthy and the folks here at Greybrooke Manor?’
‘Nothing much other than Murthy and Richie being unsavoury characters. The locals talk highly of Manu and Bhaskar’s nieces. Bit of sympathy for Michelle due to her rotten husband. Huge respect for Bhaskar. Huge. And for Sebastian too, but Bhaskar is placed on a pedestal.’
‘And the staff at the mansion?’
‘Only positive feelings for them. The cook is reputed to have a sharp tongue but a heart of gold. Runs the place like an overbearing matron, it seems. What with having young women under her wing, along with some young men? Bit of a disciplinarian.’
‘The priest? Father Tobias?’
‘Harmless, abstracted bloke. Poor as a church mouse, I’m told. His family has been around in the Western Ghats for a couple of generations. Has a brother in Madikeri.’
‘And finally the victim? Phillip?’
‘You’ll be surprised at how little the locals know about him. His presence doesn’t seem to have registered around here. In fact, some of those I spoke to asked, “Who is Phillip?” when I brought him up. Rarely comes to town, I believe.’
Hardly had Athreya thanked Rajan and hung up when his phone rang again. It was the fingerprinting man. Athreya sat down on a bench at Sunset Deck and took the call. This was going to be important.
‘Thought I’d give you whatever information I have at this point,’ he said. ‘There are several prints on the candlesticks on the altar, but they are not from the night of the murder. The prints of Sebastian, Dora and Murugan are all over them, but dust has settled on top of them in most cases. The same is the case with the altar.
‘But there is a funny thing about the altar. Judging by how dust has been disturbed or rubbed off, I think it has been handled extensively. However, there are no fresh prints.’
‘Gloves?’ Athreya asked.
‘Gloves,’ the fingerprinting man concurred. ‘And did you know that the altar top is not made of a single piece of stone? It is made of three separate slabs that fit neatly into each other.’
‘But isn’t that how it always is? Marble, granite and other stones come in slabs of fixed dimensions. They are cut and glued together during installation. That’s the case with all countertops—kitchens, offices or altars.’
‘That’s right, but that’s not what I am saying. The three pieces here are not glued together. They just fit precisely next to each other.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘I’m not sure. But there is something else too. The wheelchair.’
‘Go on.’
‘Parts of the wheelchair had been rubbed down after it was wheeled into the corner. There are two handles at the rear of the wheelchair, which are used to push or pull it. If there was one place that should have had prints, it is these handles. But they have no prints. Zilch!’
‘Not even old or smudged prints?’
‘None. The handles have been wiped clean.’
‘If the handles have been wiped clean, it’s possible that they were handled by someone without gloves. Then, after the job was done, that person wiped the handles.’
‘Exactly!’
‘The hands that touched the altar wore gloves, but the ones that wheeled the wheelchair didn’t. That’s interesting.’
‘There’s more. Parts of the armrests had been wiped clean too. The armrest is full of Bhaskar’s prints, as can be expected. But there are some that belong to Phillip, too. The parts that have been wiped clean are probably the ones someone would hold on to if they were moving the wheelchair.
‘The other interesting aspect is the prints on the console and the joystick assembly. What is intriguing is that here, there are no prints at all—not even Bhaskar’s. Again, zilch. Wiped clean. I don’t think blood spilled on to the console and the joystick. Some traces would still be there if it had, especially in the natural cracks on the leather covering of the joystick.’
Holding his phone in his left hand, Athreya was listening intently. His right hand was drawing invisible figures and words with its index finger on the stone bench—a sign that the owner’s mind was working in high gear.
‘One of the staff members says she heard the whir of the wheelchair at night,’ Athreya said slowly. ‘If that is true, someone drove it. The console and the joystick were used, presumably just before the murder. But later, it was wheeled into the corner and rubbed down. There just may have been a pattern here.’
‘If there is a pattern, sir, I don’t see it,’ the fingerprinting man said.
‘Thanks for this,’ Athreya said. ‘It’s very useful. By the way, did you do the last piece of work I’d requested?’
‘Yes, sir. We’ll know the results tomorrow.’
After the call, Athreya sat still as stone at Sunset Deck. For fifteen minutes, he didn’t move. The only movement came from two fingers of his right hand as they furiously scribbled invisible words and phrases on the bench. Athreya’s erstwhile colleagues used to joke that they would have cracked most cases sooner had they known
