Capital Punishment

by Robert Wilson

  ‘Make her, Esme. Make her.’

  The phone went dead. He called back.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She cut the line.’

  ‘What’s going on, Esme?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I haven’t had the chance to talk to her.’

  ‘Ask her just to listen. She doesn’t have to talk. It’s just three words.’

  He hung on.

  ‘Here she is,’ said Esme. ‘She’ll listen only.’

  ‘I love you,’ said Boxer.

  The line went dead again.

  He didn’t call back.

  A car pulled up on Aubrey Walk. Mercy came to the front door below him. More trouble, he thought, and went downstairs to let her in.

  ‘Where’s Isabel?’ asked Mercy.

  ‘Swimming. There’s a pool in the basement.’

  ‘Why aren’t you down there with her?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to talk to Amy,’ he said, not rising to it.

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘I spoke, she hung up.’

  Mercy shook her head. He led her into the living room, said he had something from the kidnappers she should see. Mercy briefed him on the Grange Road killings. Boxer turned on the DVD player. Mercy watched, hardly daring to breathe. The shot came. She gasped and dropped her head into her hands. Boxer nudged her back up and they watched to the end.

  ‘My God, how did she take that?’

  ‘Badly at first, as you can imagine, but anger’s brought her round. She’s mad at Frank D’Cruz.’

  ‘So she’s tough, too,’ said Mercy.

  The door opened. Isabel stood there in a white towelling bathrobe, drying her hair with a towel. Isabel smiled. She was pleased to see Mercy, who crossed the room and, without a word, embraced her. Mercy felt all Isabel’s strength and vulnerability pulsing under her fingers and now knew for certain that she’d lost Charlie to this woman.

  Armed with a photo of Deepak Mistry, Roger Clayton was sitting in Leopold’s café in central Mumbai with an ill-advised Kingfisher Premium beer in front of him. It was 10.30 p.m. and he was waiting to be taken to his contact in Chhota Tambe’s gang, the Hindu breakaway outfit from the infamous D-Company. He was nervous, which was the reason for the beer, and it was ill-advised because he could feel the pav bhaji being horribly transformed in the excessive acid of his stomach.

  Other things played on his mind. The situation had become more complicated in London. Simon Deacon had called back later on to ask him to follow up on the police report about the break-in to the warehouse storing the electric car prototypes at D’Cruz’s factory. Deacon had also fleshed out more details of the lead-up to the kidnap, the profiler’s report on the kidnapper and the fact that he had staged a mock execution of D’Cruz’s daughter. Finally, Deacon told him that he’d spoken to the CIA about Amir Jat’s protégé, Mahmood Aziz. Their primary concern was that he was ambitious, that after more than twenty years in the field in Afghanistan, Pakistan and India, he now had Western targets in mind.

  Agents in Pakistan were now looking at the network of people around Lt General Abdel Iqbal and his links to Amir Jat and friends. Pressure had been applied on the Indian Research and Analysis Wing to help find any connections D’Cruz might have to other ISI officers with terrorist sympathies. They were on the hunt for information from Dubai. Clayton couldn’t help but feel that a lot of this activity had been generated by his brilliant source: the idiot Gagan and his sublime fish tarts.

  A taxi driver came into the café, signalled to him and saved him from the last of his beer. He was taken to the Bandra Fire Station and pointed into a black and yellow auto rickshaw. For once he was glad to be in one of these infernal machines, whose loud and obnoxious exhaust was marginally more toxic than his own. He rapidly gave up trying to work out where they were going and sank back into the enclosing darkness of the canopy, from where he could secretly observe the lurid city lights, which stamped back-lit vignettes onto his retina.

  Half an hour later, the rickshaw driver stopped in a narrow lane of even more squalid squalor than usual and pointed to a green door with a red light behind it. He made a sign for Clayton to batter it with his fist. Clayton wiped the sweat from his face and put his foot daintily on an invisible black mush, which skidded away from him, and he landed awkwardly on the floor of the rickshaw, twisting his knee. He clawed his way up and out and hung onto the rickshaw’s black canopy in agony. The driver took off and he just saved himself from ending up face down in the sludge that had reignited his old croquet injury. As the blatter of the engine receded, he heard an animal sound: the lowing of water buffalo, the stamping of their impatient hooves.

  It’s a bloody game, isn’t it? he thought, as he limped towards the green door.

  He hammered on its planks; the cracked paint stuck to his fist. The red light behind pulsed. The door opened onto an empty corridor. A girl in a lime green sari appeared through a curtain of muslin, beckoning him forward, and he thought he might be lurching into a dream.

  The door creaked shut behind him. A hood of evil-smelling hessian came down over his head and was tightened at the neck so that he choked. His knees were kicked from behind and he went down heavily on the smooth cement floor, grunting with pain. His arms were pinned behind him and tied together at the elbows by a thick band of cloth, while some plastic flex was wrapped around his wrists.

  Two men hauled him to his feet and the effort resulted in a monstrous fart, followed by a beat of silence and uncontrollable giggling. They said something in a language he didn’t understand, not Urdu, and laughed again. They dragged him down the corridor, through the curtain and out into a courtyard, where women were chattering and there was the smell of frying food.

  They ricocheted down another corridor, out into the open air and stuffed him into a car. It was a tight fit, so that the two men sat with a buttock on each of his thighs, their smell coming through his hood – soap, sweat, spice and something sharp on their breath, like paan. Another fart, this time low and growling, protracted and inaudible, as his fear multiplied the horrors of his guts. His two minders made exaggerated protests. Clayton was dismayed to find that the first remotely exciting thing he’d done in his two years in Mumbai was descending into farce.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was dragged out and rushed in a loose ruck into another building, up some rough steps and more doors. A long corridor. He was handed over to someone else using the same incomprehensible language. The solid grip and presence of a big man guided him into a room. He was released from his constraints and pressed down into a small sofa. The hood came off with a flourish, as if he was the main dish at a restaurant with ideas above its station.

  There was a man sitting in front of him on a wooden chair. He was wearing a white kurta over jeans, with pointed black leather shoes by which, Clayton thought, he would not like to be kicked. Littered around the room, on a mixture of low-slung chairs and benches, were an assortment of young men. They looked at him with eyes that were quite dead, either drugged or consumed by weariness at the prospect of further murder. The heat in the room was suffocating but no one seemed bothered by it. The sweat poured from his chest, trickled down his stomach and flanks.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Clayton.

  ‘I’m Yash,’ said the man in the pointy shoes.

  ‘Where’s my friend?’

  ‘I’m your friend’s boss,’ said Yash. ‘He said you were looking for somebody.’

  ‘I’m trying to find a man called Deepak Mistry,’ said Clayton.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure, strange as that may seem. He’s a missing piece of the jigsaw. I hope that by finding him it will complete the picture and make things clearer.’

  ‘Make what clearer?’

  ‘Well, this, too, might seem odd, but I’m not entirely sure of that, either. I think his disappearance may have something to do with Frank D’Cruz and possibly . . .’ said Clayton, going for the big guess, ‘something to do with his
daughter, Alyshia.’

  ‘Who do you represent?’ asked Yash.

  Clayton had thought about this. HMG’s MI6 was not a card to be tossed lightly onto the table amongst this bunch of goondas. But he needed a cover that they could not easily check.

  ‘Alyshia’s mother’s lawyer, in London. He didn’t give me a very full picture for good reasons, I’m sure. I was just asked to locate Mr Mistry and put some questions to him.’

  There was a prolonged exchange between Yash and another young man sitting next to him on a low chair, which Clayton didn’t grasp, as they were speaking what he thought was probably Bambaiya, a strange blend of Hindi, Marathi, oddly pronounced English and slang.

  ‘Why would a lawyer in London want to know where an ex-employee of Frank D’Cruz is in Mumbai?’

  ‘It sounds to me, Yash,’ said Clayton, looking him hard in the eye, ‘that you know where Deepak Mistry is and that you’re protecting him. So why not let me talk to him direct?’

  ‘Only if you tell me what it’s about.’

  ‘It concerns Alyshia and that is all I am prepared to say.’

  There was another exchange during which Yash did not take his eyes off Clayton. It was now apparent that the men were all nervous. The dead eyes were suddenly livelier in their heads. Rapid talk flashed around the room. Yash made a call, put his hand up and the cacophony stopped. He spoke rapidly and listened before closing down and making a small motion with his finger. The hood was fitted over Clayton’s head again. They pulled him to his feet and cuffed his wrists. They led him back to the car. Forty minutes drive, the sweat coming out of him in stinking cobs. Shirt drenched, trousers and underpants too. No one spoke.

  The car came to a halt and he was bundled out. The unmistakeable noise and smell of slum came through the hessian. He wondered whether it was Dharavi, which he could see from his offices in the Bandra Kurla Complex, across the stinking Mithi River, with its mangrove swamps being slowly destroyed by the industrial effluent and the combined detritus of the millions who lived along it.

  They walked him for some minutes, holding his head down at various points. The howl of generators filled the night. Music, TV, radio and humanity fought for air-time. Then quieter and quieter. One arm released, the passages so narrow now they couldn’t manage two abreast.

  Finally they went indoors, uncuffed him and pushed him down into a chair. The heat was oppressive, even with the hood removed. He was left alone in a room with sky blue walls, all cracked. A framed and faded photograph of Rajiv Ghandi, festooned in garlands of marigolds, was hanging from a nail. There was a closed pair of wooden shutters opposite the door and one other chair. Clayton massaged his wrists where the plastic cuffs had left a reddened welt. He flexed his damaged knee.

  The door was opened by a man in a white kurta pajama. He sat in the chair opposite, leaned back. Resting in his lap was a stainless steel Beretta with black plastic grip panels. The man flicked his long hair back over his shoulders and Clayton realised that this was Deepak Mistry.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t feel it,’ said Clayton.

  ‘Yash thought you’d been sent by Frank.’

  ‘I thought my friend had explained everything when he set up the meeting.’

  ‘We are all a little paranoid and Frank is a very cunning fellow,’ said Mistry. ‘Yash was thinking he wouldn’t take any chances, just kill you and tie you down in the mangrove swamp until you rotted away to nothing. That might still happen if we find you’ve been lying.’

  ‘Why does Frank want to find you so badly?’

  ‘Because he wants to kill me,’ said Mistry, opening his hand.

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  Mistry thought about this for a moment as if he was trying to decide what story he would choose.

  ‘With Frank, you’re all right as long as you stay inside the circle. If you drift out and he feels he no longer has influence over you, your every move becomes a potential danger to him. He is no longer sure what you know and, worse, whether you will tell what you know,’ said Mistry. ‘I’ve seen men who want to get out, who just can’t stand the pressure anymore. They leave and a few days later they get a visit from a goonda sent by Anwar Masood.’

  ‘Who is Anwar Masood?’ asked Clayton, transfixed by Mistry and only just remembering in time who he was supposed to be and what he couldn’t possibly know.

  ‘Yash tells me you have information for me concerning Alyshia,’ said Mistry.

  ‘I’m surprised to be sitting here in front of you,’ said Clayton, realising now that the security tests were continuing, the paranoia level very high, and the only information he was going to get from Mistry would be before he’d revealed his bait, not after. ‘I was only expecting a meeting with my friend to ask if you could be found. I didn’t realise you were already connected. I’d never heard of Yash.’

  ‘Yash and I go back a long way,’ said Mistry. ‘To the village. We left Bihar together. He wasn’t very bright, academically speaking. He came to Mumbai and found that there was money to be made in a gang.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I went to Bangalore where I got a job with an English family. The father had come over from the UK to set up a company designing econometric software. He taught me almost all I needed to know and his wife gave me English lessons. When they left they asked me to come with them, but I said my future is in India.’

  ‘I heard you ran your own company in Bangalore,’ said Clayton. ‘Did the English guy set you up?’

  ‘He was kind, but not that kind,’ said Mistry. ‘I had to rely on Yash for that.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Clayton, getting things now, ‘and did that come with strings attached to Chhota Tambe, for instance?’

  Mistry could see Clayton’s brain moving up a gear; it made him nervous.

  ‘Does this have anything to do with what you’re going to tell me about Alyshia?’

  ‘It could do,’ said Clayton. ‘I’m just not sure what. Would you just tell me what was demanded of you? I assume that Yash is running things for Chhota Tambe.’

  Mistry shifted in his seat, lifted the gun, held it over the side of the chair, still relaxed but aware now that Clayton’s greatest talent was his lack of threat and how willingly people opened up to him.

  ‘I think, Mister Clayton, the time has come for you to tell me this news about Alyshia,’ said Mistry.

  ‘The reason I was asked to make contact with you, if at all possible,’ said Clayton, trying to sound lawyerish, but verging on the Dickensian, ‘was to inform you that Alyshia D’Cruz has been kidnapped. You were both employed in the Konkan Hills steel works and you both left the company at more or less the same time. Alyshia’s mother’s lawyers were wondering if there was some connection, or if you could shed light on any possible reason for her kidnap.’

  As he delivered this news, Clayton watched Mistry for the slightest reaction. Mistry’s eyes widened by a few millimetres for a fraction of a second.

  ‘When and where did this happen?’

  ‘In London, late on Friday night.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘We were hoping you might be able to help us with that.’

  ‘Have they made any demands?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Clayton. ‘And somebody tried to shoot Frank D’Cruz dead on his first night in London.’

  Clayton noticed that the gun was no longer in a relaxed hand but had come up onto the armrest of the chair and was now in a fully tensed grip, pointing at his gut.

  ‘I think you can tell from my situation here that I am in no way responsible, if that’s what you’re implying,’ said Mistry.

  ‘It’s important under these circumstances to gather as much information as possible in the hope that we can find out who is responsible,’ said Clayton.

  ‘Why me?’ said Mistry, his voice taking on a brutal edge.

  ‘I’m not here to accuse you,’ said Clayton. ‘Just for insight. Things have become very serious, very qu
ickly. Mr D’Cruz has hired a kidnap consultant and a profiler has reviewed the conversations so far. They believe that no demand will ever be made, that the idea is to punish Mr D’Cruz and eventually kill Alyshia. He’s even staged a mock execution.’

  Each additional piece of information seemed to have the opposite effect on Mistry that Clayton was expecting.

  ‘How do you know?’ said Mistry, leaning forward, his eyes burning into Clayton.

  ‘How do I know what?’ asked Clayton, confused.

  ‘How do you know to come to me?’

  Clayton’s sweat-drenched clothes had gone cold and this coldness penetrated his innards. His throat was constricted; air was scarce in the room.

  ‘You . . . you are one of the participants, aren’t you?’ said Clayton. ‘You left Konkan Hills at the same time as Alyshia. She returned to London a changed person. Something had happened, but nobody knows what. We’re having to piece things together ourselves and we’re under extreme pressure. You are a part of the jigsaw, Mister Mistry, but we don’t think you’re involved.’

  The paranoia Mistry had mentioned earlier in such a calm way seemed to be more alive now in his body language. There was nothing languid about him anymore.

  ‘I’m beginning to side with Yash now,’ he said, using the gun to make his points. ‘I’m thinking that you’re not who you say you are, that you’ve been sent here to smoke me out. I’m thinking that you come here with such news to—’

  He stopped at the unmistakeable sound of a gunshot. There was a beat of silence before a barrage of return fire broke open the suffocating night. Mistry looked at the door as if it might disintegrate into splintering holes. Clayton got to his feet, not springing into action, exactly, but more out of pure alarm.

  ‘I should have listened to Yash,’ said Mistry. ‘You were so plausible.’

  More gunfire and Mistry rushed at the wooden shutters, clambered out into the dark as two gunmen shouldered through the door. They trained their weapons on Clayton, into whose mind there suddenly flashed an earnest young face with a wake of betrayal flaming behind it: Gagan. Gagan and his supremely edible fish tarts. He could see Anwar Masood heaping more than praise on his wiggling head.