The Missing Case of Mrs. Singh

The Missing Wife

The crisp mountain air of Mussoorie nipped at Detective Banerjee’s cheeks as he stood facing Lala Singh, a man whose crumpled face bore the exhaustion of two sleepless nights.

“She’s been gone since Tuesday, Detective,” Lala Singh rasped, voice thick with desperation. “Rekha… my wife… vanished. I’ve called, I’ve searched—nothing. Not a trace.”

Banerjee, whose sharp eyes seldom missed a detail, took in Singh’s disheveled clothes, the tremor in his hands, and an anxious undertone in his voice that felt… almost rehearsed.

“Right, Mr. Singh,” he said quietly. “Let’s take it from the top.”

He turned to Ashok Kumar—his trusted partner, large as a mountain, kind as a monk—and gave a brief nod.
“Ashok, let’s look around the house.”

The cottage, a modest one with ivy-covered walls and a view of the hills, appeared strangely undisturbed. Inside, the stillness was unsettling. Ashok moved methodically through the rooms, careful not to miss a thing. Banerjee lingered with Singh.

“Who else lives here?” Banerjee asked.

“My son—Vikram. He’s at boarding school. We sent him back after the holiday break. And we have a maid, Kusum, and a butler—Bharat. They’ve both worked with us for years.”

Banerjee made a mental note.

In the kitchen, Kusum trembled under his questions. “Madam was always kind,” she said. “But… she’d been sad lately. Quieter.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something between her and Saab.”

Bharat, the butler, was stiffer. “They argued sometimes. About Someone, I think. She was upset often.”

In the bedroom, the bed was meticulously made. A single book lay open on the table. A faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. Banerjee’s instincts prickled—too perfect. Staged. Dust clung undisturbed to the windowsill. No sign of forced entry.

“When did you last see her?” Banerjee asked.

“Monday night,” Lala said. “We went to bed late. I was exhausted. She was reading. Next morning, gone.”

“Did she have enemies? Someone she feared?”

“No,” Singh said quickly. “But…” He hesitated.

“But?”

“She worked at a women’s NGO in town. There’s a man there—Rishi. Young, unmarried. I always felt there was something between them.”

Banerjee’s brow arched. “You suspected your wife of an affair?”

“I didn’t want to,” Lala muttered. “But she was… distant. They texted a lot. Laughed together. He’d even been to the house once, when I wasn’t home.”

Banerjee made another note.

The next day, Banerjee and Ashok visited the NGO. The workplace was warm, cluttered, filled with paperwork and tea cups. Rishi met them in the small break room.

“Rekha?” he asked, eyes wide. “I heard she was missing. My God, is she…?”

“We’re investigating all angles,” Banerjee said. “How close were you?”

“Close,” Rishi admitted. “But not how her husband thinks. She was like an older sister to me. She guided me when I was new, helped me grow into this role. I’d never disrespect her like that.”

“Do you have any idea where she might go? Anywhere she went when upset?”

“She once mentioned a small temple near the woods. But I doubt she’d go alone.”

Back in Mussoorie, Banerjee and Ashok interviewed the villagers. One whispered something strange.

“Lala Saab… he’s not as broken up as he acts. And I’ve seen him with another woman. Younger. Comes to town in a red Alto car. They always meet near the old post office.”

That evening, Banerjee watched from a distance. A red Alto pulled up. Lala Singh appeared minutes later. The woman—a local schoolteacher, half his age—greeted him with a smile and a hug. Banerjee clicked a photo. The mask of grief was slipping.

Back at the cottage, Banerjee sat in Rekha’s room again. He paced, replaying every statement, every gesture. Something still felt wrong.

Then he saw it: a tiny fleck of mud near the rug’s edge. Different from the dark soil around the house. Reddish. Coarse.

Ashok bent down beside him. “Not from here.”

“No. But I know where it’s from.”

He thought of the dense woods beyond the village—the old quarry, notorious for its red clay soil and treacherous terrain.

“Let’s go.”

They reached the woods by dusk. The trees grew thick, shadows stretching long across the forest floor. The air smelled of pine and wet leaves. An hour into the search, they found it.

A patch of disturbed earth, partially hidden by rocks and brambles. A rusted shovel beside it.

“Dig,” Banerjee said softly.

Ashok’s shovel struck something too soft. Too recent.

They found Rekha. Her body was pale, lifeless. Her eyes stared up, frozen in terror.

Banerjee closed his own.

He didn’t need the forensics to tell him who had done it.

Back at the cottage, Lala Singh sat in his chair, a glass of whiskey untouched before him. Banerjee entered quietly.

“We found her,” he said.

Singh looked up, startled. “Where?”

“In the quarry. Buried in the red clay.”

Silence.

“You tried to hide it. But you missed a speck on the rug.”

Lala’s mouth opened, but no words came. His eyes darted around the room like a cornered animal.

“You had a girlfriend. You were in love with another women. Rekha found out. She threatened to leave. And in your panic, you killed her.”

Singh’s face collapsed into his hands. He slid to the floor, sobbing. “I didn’t mean to… I—she said she’d take Vikram. She said she’d expose everything. I just… I snapped.”

When the police came to take him away, Vikram was already en route from school. Ashok promised to break the news gently.

That night, Banerjee stood on the porch, the mountain air colder than before. Another life extinguished. Another child orphaned. Another soul lost to desperation.

He pulled the worn Bhagavad Gita from his coat pocket and let its weight settle in his palm.

In the quiet hills of Mussoorie, justice had been done.

But not without cost.

The case was closed.
But Rekha’s eyes would haunt him for a long time to come.