Read the Excerpt: An Atmospheric, Razor-Sharp Social Mystery From Abir Mukherjee
He stumbled to the door, turned the thermostat to thaw, then headed for the kitchen in search of painkillers and coffee. The apartment was a tomb. It was never this quiet during daylight hours. There was always someone here, someone whose place of work was his home. Ayisha, Amit, Venky, the cook – Rasika – was that her name? He really should get that straight. Not his fault. It was just that most of the time she kept to the kitchen and he hardly went in there because of the smell. Not the cooking – that smelled fine – but rather the smell when there was no cooking going on – like now. An odd smell. Gassy, like kerosene and boiled eggs. It turned his stomach. He took a breath, held it and rifled through the kitchen drawers looking for the tablets, finding them in the third one he opened.
He took two, chewed ’em down and dry-swallowed, then regretted it as the pieces scratched his throat. He gulped for air, and the stench of eggs and kerosene hit him like a tax bill. Coffee. He needed some damn coffee. The machine sat on the corner of the worktop, gold-trimmed and shining like a shrine to the god of caffeine. Top-of-the-line model, courtesy of the manufacturer. The commercials he’d done for them weren’t too bad, and they’d paid well. And then there was the free coffee for the rest of his life.
He found a cup, put in a pod and pressed the button.
The machine did its thing, whirring and frothing and extracting liquid gold and velvet crema. Shit, even in his head he sounded like the commercial. Still, the coffee was good, the shot of caffeine jolting him to consciousness for one thing, and for another the aroma doing a decent job of masking the smell of gas.
He sipped and heard noises coming from behind the door at the far end of the kitchen. The dull thud of something and the scrape of furniture. The door opened and Ayisha looked out, saw him, squealed like he was Freddie Kruger, then disappeared once again.
He didn’t have the energy for this.
‘Ayisha.’
Her head returned.
‘Sab theek hai, sir?’
‘Ayisha, you gotta stop hiding every time you see me. You got that?’
The girl gave him a nod.
‘No, sir.’
‘From now on, if you’ve got a question, I want you to ask me and not Sweety ma’am. Understand?’
Another nod, accompanied by a smile this time.
‘No, sir.’
Why was everything always so fucking difficult?
‘Breakfast, sir? Cook not come till . . . aath-baje.’
Her English was basic, which was generally a good thing given he and Sweety conducted their arguments in the language. What the maid didn’t understand, she couldn’t repeat, or sell.
Food sounded good, but the trauma of translation might be too much for the both of them.
‘Go back to bed, Ayisha.’
She disappeared once more, closing the door behind her. Was that her bedroom in there? He knew she lived with them – Sweety had told him so – but until that moment he had no real idea where. He’d never even noticed that door before.
He took his coffee through to the lounge, crossing the hallway, suddenly recalling Amit helping him into the apartment last night, hovering in the corner as, what exactly? He couldn’t quite recall. Hazy visions of Sweety, standing in a doorway, bawling him out. Did that happen? Is that why he’d been sleeping on the couch?
Amit would know. Where did he live?
Couldn’t be far seeing as the guy was never more than ten minutes away when called, but where exactly was another matter. The room still felt like Siberia. The bedroom would be warmer. Sweety didn’t like the air con on at night, and for once he was okay with that. He’d just go in quietly, slip into bed and try not to wake her.
Yeah, and the Bengals might win the Super Bowl.
Didn’t matter where in the world they were or what time he came in, that sixth sense of hers meant she’d stir as soon as he entered the room – stir and complain that he was keeping her awake.
Every time.
Every. Single. Time.
He opened the door, held his breath and entered. He braced himself. The complaints would start any second. But they didn’t come.
Thank you, God.
It was cold in here too. In the gloom, he padded silently across yards of mahogany flooring (‘warmer than marble and therefore better for a bedroom’, so sayeth Her Highness). She had her back to him, a waterfall of dark hair cascading onto the pillow. Was she giving him the silent treatment? He hated that. He’d much rather she just shout at him for getting home at stupid o’clock smelling like a fish bazar.
‘Sweety?’
The bedsheets looked different. Not the pristine cream silk that she liked, but patterned with crimson flowers. Jeez, Sweety hated all that shit. Ayisha must have got a bawling when Sweety saw it last night. That made him smile.
It was only as he got to the bed and stood over her that he realized.
And then the coffee cup fell from his fingers and smashed to pieces on his mahogany floor.
Discover the Book
Washed-up American heart throb George Abercrombie hates India, even from his apartment on the 68th floor of Mumbai’s grandest luxury skyscraper, the Pinnacle. He hates the noise, he hates the heat, and just maybe he’s grown to hate his wife, the newest queen of Bollywood, Sweety Sahota. So when George wakes from a drunken stupor to find Sweety murdered in their bedroom, he knows just how badly he’s cooked. But where is Sweety’s computer? Or her cellphone? And where has his personal assistant gone? As George scrambles to piece together the night, others in the building are covering their tracks. Sweety’s assistant must find who is blackmailing her, and a servant who knows too much goes on the run… The Pinnacle is a dazzling and addictive thriller that’s three plots in one, set against a world of lavish opulence where someone is always watching—because everyone is hiding something.
