Compass Box Killer

by Piyush Jha

  Piyush Jha is an acclaimed film director, ad filmmaker and the author of the bestselling novel, Mumbaistan.

  A student political leader at university, he pursued a career in advertising management after acquiring an MBA degree. Later, he switched tracks, first to make commercials for some of the country's largest brands, and then to write and direct feature films. His films include Chalo America, King of Bollywood and Sikandar.

  He lives in his beloved Mumbai, where he can often be found walking the streets that inspire his stories.

  Also available by the author:

  Mumbaistan

  Published by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2013

  7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

  New Delhi 110002

  Sales centres:

  Allahabad Bengaluru Chennai

  Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu

  Kolkata Mumbai

  Copyright © Piyush Jha 2013

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Printed at [PRINTER’S NAME, CITY]

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  To my wife Priyanka,

  whose continued belief in me is my greatest strength.

  Prologue

  His hands were clasped around her throat. It hurt, but it so turned her on. The feeling was not entirely new to her—the pleasure of pain. The two times that they had been together before, he had pleasured her with it. Now, as he rubbed himself urgently against her body, she could feel him ready to oblige her again.

  Today, though, things had moved so fast that she only just realized that they were still standing at the threshold of the door to her room. ‘Come with me,’ she whispered, tugging at his hands around her throat. He let his hands fall. Holding his left hand while taking a few tentative steps backwards, she pulled him towards the huge bathroom attached to the plush guest room of the sprawling bungalow. Once inside, she stepped towards the edge of the large bathtub that was already three-quarters full of foaming warm water.

  When the Smooth Operator had knocked on her door a few minutes ago, she had been running a bath, waiting to soak herself in it. He had stepped inside and, without a word, enveloped her in his strong arms. She had responded to his soft, sensuous kiss more out of instinct than desire. He had taken this response as carte blanche and proceeded to fondle her breasts that were no longer fettered by the bra she had discarded on the bathroom floor. Protected only by a thin layer of the soft silk bathrobe she had hurriedly pulled on to answer the door, she had responded quickly to his touch. He had pushed apart the folds of her silk gown to let her breasts feel the slight nip in the November evening air in Khandala. Then, he had slid his tongue across her breasts to fully electrify her body into submission. The soft moan that had escaped from her lips had been a signal for his hands to move downwards, to the flat of her stomach. She had not allowed him to go lower, however, clasping her legs together and blocking his eager fingers. This was not because she didn’t want him, but because she was still enjoying his ministrations on her breasts. Soon, he had grown impatient. He wanted more. His greedy mouth had rapidly moved from one breast to the other and he had snaked his hands up to her throat, stroking it gently with his thumbs. She had moaned again. Suddenly, his tongue had turned rough, his hands tightening their grasp around her neck. A raw excitement had taken over her. She stopped resisting and had egged him on with her aroused shivers.

  Now, as they reached the edge of the bathtub, she motioned for him to step into the water that was now overflowing with bubbles from the bubble-bath liquid she had poured in earlier. He took charge again, reaching for her bathrobe and peeling it off in one smooth motion until she stood naked. Growing wet with anticipation as he tore the clothes off his own body, she sank into the frothy water until nothing but her head could be seen rising out of the bubbles. He, too, lowered himself into the foam, sitting across from her. Spreading his legs across her slippery thighs, he interlocked them behind her back, pulling her close to him and pressed his lips against hers. As his tongue thrust into her mouth, she felt the now-familiar slide of his hands to her naked neck—but this time, his grip was tighter. Feeling slightly uncomfortable with his tightening chokehold, she squirmed a little, indicating that she wanted him to ease up, but realized that he was in no mood to let go. In an attempt to distract him, she reached out and stroked him underwater, only to discover that he was getting harder and harder with every little squeeze of her neck. Finding it difficult to breathe now, she tried to push him away but he seemed to get more aroused by this. He squeezed her neck harder and pressed himself against her.

  Her body began to struggle, seeking release from his unyielding grip. She wanted to scream but no sound came out of her throat. Down below in the water, she could feel him between her legs, probing urgently, entering her. Her whole body thrashed against him in an effort to escape, but this only made him more frenzied as he continued to thrust himself roughly into her.

  Suddenly, all energy drained from her body. Her limbs slackened and a black fog began to envelope her brain, dulling every painful sensation. Yet she was alert enough to recognize that the blackness spelt danger. Should she succumb to it, she would not see the brightness of another day.

  Fear took control of her now; it gave her the strength she didn’t think she had. But she also knew that the adrenaline wouldn’t last long. In a last-ditch effort, her left hand broke free from his clutches and clattered against the side of the bathtub. She had to escape. Her fingertips grazed against her rumpled pair of jeans lying discarded on the floor. She felt something hard in its pocket. Cell phone, her brain screamed in recognition from the recesses of her foggy mind. She shifted her position with difficulty, continuing to feel his savage attack below the water. Deep down inside, she knew she was fighting a losing battle. Her fingers brushed against the keypad of the cell phone, feeling the shape of the letters engraved on each key. She pressed one key, then another. Press…press…press. Finally, the cell phone slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor next to the bathtub even as her fingers continued to press keys in the empty air long after the air in her lungs had died.

  The Smooth Operator didn’t notice. In fact, he hadn’t been aware of anything for the past ten minutes—his mind had switched itself off as he sank deeper and deeper into the throes of ecstasy. The fact that her body had no life left in it made no difference to him in his animal state of arousal. It was only after he was fully spent that he noticed that her eyes had turned within her skull and that all he could see were the whites.

  A ragged scream of realization escaped the Smooth Operator’s mouth as he finally released her throat and shrank back from her bubble-lathered corpse.

  1

  Mumbai

  The young man, who would soon be known in the media as ‘The Compass Box Killer’, stood sweating in the sun. Beads of perspiration ran down the dark, exposed skin of his semi-naked shoulders and soaked the ragged, soft cloth of his banian. Some droplets found their way down to the earth, sliding down th
e thin, dark, almost hairless legs that stuck out of the baggy khaki shorts like cricket stumps. The killer’s hawk-like eyes, embedded in his youthful, gaunt face just below his wide forehead, were fixed upon the sign on the single-storey building in front of him: Wamanrao Marg Police Station.

  The iconic police station, once known as the Robert Circle Police Station, had been in service since the times of the British. It is from here that police contingents were dispatched to foil the Quit India Movement of 1942. In the post-Independence boom, its strategic location between the areas of Byculla, Mumbai Central and Grant Road had granted it a special status when it came to policing nefarious activities in Mumbai’s oldest and most crowded neighbourhoods. It was said that the toughest policemen in Mumbai were posted here, due to whom many a criminal operating in the mean streets of Mumbai was meted out quick justice. Today, however, the police station was going to witness justice of a different kind.

  Policemen of all shapes and sizes bustled in and out of the busy police station paying no attention to the young man standing right in front of them. He wasn’t a killer yet, but if the policemen could read his mind, they would have made all attempts to stop him in his tracks.

  The young man drew in a deep breath and took a few steps forward; no one noticed him as he walked through the arched portals of the old British building into the large office area. From a corner, the blubbering whine of a battered wife seeking justice rose through the air, only to be drowned out by the loud guffaws of two police constables merrily watching their colleagues brutally slap the accused husband. Quick justice was the hallmark of Wamanrao Marg Police Station. The young man ducked into the wide passage that led around the office area. As he walked, his feet fell in step with the steady ‘clack-clack’ of an ancient typewriter emanating from somewhere deep within the cabins lining the passageway. The angry protests of a prostitute who had been held at the police station through the night could be heard in the background as the young man strode towards a swivel door that led into a large office chamber at the end of the passage. ‘Senior Inspector Tukaram Akurle’ was emblazoned across the door. An old, tired-looking police constable was dozing off on a wooden bench outside the office. The young man tip-toed up to the door, but the constable didn’t make a move, slumping deeper into his afternoon slumber, as was his daily routine. Emboldened, the young man parted the swivel door and entered the empty chamber inside, taking care not to make even the slightest noise.

  A huge glass-topped wooden writing table with an overlarge chair dominated the dimly-lit room. A few scrawny metal chairs faced the table in subservience. A fat, naked, 200-watt light bulb hung over the table. Maps dividing the entire Wamanrao Marg area into smaller sections adorned the walls of the room. On the far wall, a red graph tracked the fluctuating fortunes of crime in the area over the past decade. A large, precariously-stacked pile of dusty, crumbling old files and used stationery in the corner behind the table was the only eyesore in the otherwise sparse, neat room.

  The young man strode silently up to the dusty pile and pulled out a small, rectangular package wrapped in a newspaper that was bulging from the pocket of his khaki shorts. He bent down and quickly stuffed the package under the lowest file, taking care to hold the pile steady. Although a casual observer would be unable to see the package, the man still pushed at it, trying to shove it away from sight completely.

  A sharp voice cut through the air behind him. ‘Hey! What are you doing?’

  The young man turned his attention to the glass of chai lying at the foot of the glass-topped table beside the pile. Picking it up, he turned to look the source of the voice in the eye.

  He ran his fingers through his hair and said, ‘Nothing, saheb, I was just collecting your glass, see? It’s time for your afternoon chai, right?’

  Senior Inspector Akurle smiled at him through his corpulent features. The soft, shapeless mass that was his stomach hung over his uniform belt. It jiggled as he waddled to his desk. ‘Yes it is, and make sure that you get me two garam vada paos along with it.’

  The young man smiled back. ‘With extra lasoon chutney, as usual?’

  Akurle’s smile widened. ‘Yes! You’re a smart boy. Only two days on the job and you know my likes and dislikes already. Good!’

  The youngster smiled a little self-consciously. ‘I’m trying hard, saheb.’

  The Inspector sighed, ‘If only the rest of my police station was like you.’

  The young man fidgeted, not wanting to prolong the conversation. ‘I’ll be back in just ten minutes.’

  Distracted by an important-looking circular lying on his table, Akurle nodded and waved him away. The young man turned and walked out of the swivel door, bobbing his head in obeisance to the now fully-alert constable standing ramrod straight at his post by the door.

  A casual whistle found its way to the young man’s lips as he walked back through the passageway and out into the street towards the chai stall that stood across the road.

  2

  Inspector Virkar picked up the glass mug topped-up with Godfather Beer, his favourite. Taking care to not let even a single drop escape its confines, he raised the mug to take a sip when a flickering movement across the dimly-lit room caught his eye.

  ‘Aai cha gho!’ a muted curse escaped his lips as his eyes focused on the colourfully-clad figure of a girl in the distance. He put down the mug, casting a single glance of regret at the rapidly disappearing foam atop the liquid and turned his attention back to the girl. Mike in hand, she was just getting into her act on a small, elevated stage set up on the far corner of Lotus Bar. Soon, the first bars of her signature song rose up mellifluously from her garishly painted lips and filled the room with a happy buzz. As was always the case, the girl seemed to have a magical effect on the patrons of Lotus Bar; almost all conversations stopped as lust-filled eyes turned towards her. The girl’s lithe body swayed as she sang a song that spoke of joyous times in the days gone by. However, her eyes didn’t seem to believe any of the words emanating from her mouth and, although her face displayed a fixed smile, the drooping corners of her mouth reflected an incomprehensible sadness that the bar’s patrons barely noticed.

  Virkar seemed to be drawn into the song—only a close observer would have seen his gaze shift to the scraggly, middle-aged man sitting a few tables away from him in the darker shadows of the bar. The man returned Virkar’s look with a slight nod. Suddenly, rising from his table, he rushed towards the singer shouting, ‘Binky…Binky!’

  The singer stopped singing, stunned. Her sad eyes locked on to the middle-aged man who was striding towards her through the smoke-filled haze of the bar. They lit up with recognition. Happiness shone on her face for the first time since taking the mike. ‘Papa!’

  The single word rang out through the mike like a shrill announcement. Lotus Bar’s waiters and patrons watched in shock as the bizarre scenario unfolded in front of them. As the middle-aged man reached the stage, the girl dropped the mike and rushed towards him. He opened his arms and she sprang into them with a squeal of repressed joy. ‘Binky…my daughter, I’ve found you at last!’ The man’s delight was audible to everyone in the room.

  Virkar rose from his seat and walked towards the father and daughter and suddenly, the spell broke. Tough-looking bouncers surrounded the middle-aged man and Binky and began to pull them apart.

  ‘Thamba!’ Virkar barked, his deep, bass-endowed voice cutting through the commotion. The words were spoken with just the right amount of intimidating force, one that could only be used by a man of the law. The bouncers froze and looked towards him with respect. For a few seconds, Virkar stared them down, his lean, muscular body poised for a fight. Then he began to walk towards them, the way he moved clearly conveying that he had participated in many a street brawl and won. But what really made the bouncers shrink back was the fact that, even in the smoke-filled room, Virkar’s eyes were clear—clear to the point of being expressionless—almost as if he didn’t care how much damage he inflicted on anyo
ne who didn’t follow his orders. Virkar smiled to himself. He could always rely on his powerful voice and carriage to create an impact.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.

  ‘She is my daughter, saheb. I have been looking for her for three years,’ the middle-aged man blurted out.

  Virkar looked pointedly at the singer. ‘Tell me, is this true?’

  Despite Virkar’s aggressive, no-nonsense tone, Binky cast a nervous glance at the burly bouncers.

  Virkar voice turned gentle. ‘Don’t be afraid. I am a police officer.’

  The change of tone had its desired effect and Binky burst into tears. Falling at the middle-aged man’s feet, she began to wail. ‘Please forgive me, papa. I was wrong to run away from home. Take me back, take me away from here!’

  A man dressed in a cheap black jacket stepped up. ‘You can’t leave right now. You have a contract with us,’ he said, his tone threatening.

  Virkar ignored the man. ‘How old are you?’ he asked Binky.

  ‘Sixteen,’ piped up the middle-aged man.

  ‘That’s a lie! She’s eighteen as per our records,’ retorted the man in the black jacket who, by now, had started to sweat.

  ‘Okay. Go and get your records,’ said Virkar without hesitation.

  Black Jacket lost all his bravado and fell into a sullen silence.

  ‘I will have to take these two with me to the police station to record their statement,’ Virkar announced loudly to no one in particular. But before he could say anything else, a dark, portly man in an electric blue silk lungi-kurta ensemble emerged from the door behind the stage. Everyone except Virkar and the father-daughter duo moved aside in deference as he sauntered forward. The chunky gold chains around his neck and wrists shone under the bright lights of the stage. His thick, bushy moustache hung over even thicker lips which parted lazily to ask, ‘Why are you getting involved in this, Inspector Virkar saheb?’ As a Lotus Bar regular, Virkar recognized the man as Sadhu Anna, the owner.