by Piyush Jha
Virkar entered the bar and sat on a stool in a corner. Opposite him, three white-haired pensioners were deep in conversation, discussing the intricacies of their LIC policies. At another table, a young couple whispered sweet-nothings to each other. A few tables away from them, a thin man wearing a floppy cricket hat that covered most of his face sat staring down at his glass. The only person who seemed to acknowledge Virkar’s presence was the sleepy-looking barman, who looked as though he would do anything for the warm comfort of his bed at that moment.
Doctor’s brandy with warm water was Virkar’s choice that evening. As a young boy, Virkar had seen his father drinking copious amounts of it straight from the quarter-bottles. When he had enquired as to why his father drank the strong-smelling liquid, he had been told that it was medicine for his perennial cold, leading Vikar to associate Doctor’s brandy with a cure for cold. It was only in his early twenties that he found out that brandy was a no-nonsense alcoholic beverage. The ‘Doctor’s’ label was only a sales gimmick employed by marketers who wanted to give people an excuse to imbibe alcohol without guilt.
Virkar stretched his legs out in front of him and let the sharp liquid work its way down his throat. The brandy gave his body some warmth, but it was his soul that needed it more. He mulled over the reasons for his personal interest in finding out the truth about Tracy’s death. During his decade-long career in the police, he had become used to death staring him in the face. But it was always especially difficult for him when the victim was a woman. Each time he heard or read about a crime against a woman, an inner voice would wish he had been there to protect the woman. He always shivered involuntarily when faced with the brutality of someone who had raised a weapon or otherwise snuffed the life out of a member of the gentler sex. He just couldn’t get used to it, and somewhere deep inside, he didn’t particularly want to.
Virkar’s thoughts tumbled together as he worked his way down the brandy glass. Who would kill a kind, charitable woman like Tracy? Surrounded by the crime and corruption that was the part and parcel of a policeman’s life, Virkar had always been in awe of those who could keep their life uncompromised—especially if it was to serve others selflessly without getting caught up in the trappings of power and prestige. And from what he ’d heard from Lourdes, Tracy seemed to be that kind of a person. As a man of the law, he owed it to her to find the cause of her death, even if he was unsuccessful in catching the Compass Box Killer. Tracy had travelled all the way from Britain to Mumbai to help the unprivileged and yet someone had done her wrong. Virkar’s mouth set in a thin line. He had made up his mind. He was going to get her justice, no matter how risky the journey was.
Virkar looked up from his empty glass and the barman’s practised eyes connected with his. Before Virkar could react, the barman walked up to him with the steel peg-measure full to the brim. However, he poured only a 30 ml peg into Virkar’s glass.
‘How did you know I wanted a small?’ Virkar asked.
The barman smiled. ‘After three quick, large ones, your type normally switches to small pegs.’
Stung by the barman’s words, Virkar tried to find a fitting reply but couldn’t. Standing up, he pushed his bar stool back which scraped against the old wooden floorboards, making a loud sound. Except the thin man in the floppy cricket hat who seemed to be drowning in his drink, everyone in the bar turned to stare at him. Ignoring everyone’s gaze, Virkar drew his wallet and extracted a slightly damp thousand-rupee note. He laid it on the bar counter, flung a dirty look at the barman and walked out of the bar into the drizzle. Once outside, he wore his raincoat, got on to the Bullet and rode out on to the narrow path that met the main road. Just as he turned a corner, the headlights of a car shone directly into his eyes, blinding him for an instant. ‘Aai cha gho!’ Virkar cursed as he stepped hard on his brakes and brought the Bullet to a sharp stop. He had narrowly avoided a collision. Gearing up for an argument, Virkar got off his Bullet.
‘Had one too many, Inspector?’ a familiar voice called out from the driver’s seat and then broke into peals of laughter. Virkar stopped in his tracks. Now that the car’s headlights were switched off, he could see the figure sitting at the steering wheel. Raashi.
‘Judging by your expression, one would think you’re not too happy to see me,’ she said, dissolving into a fresh fit of giggles.
Virkar could only manage a self-conscious, ‘I…uh…uh…’
‘It’s okay, Inspector. I ’d be just as surprised as you are had you suddenly appeared in front of me like this.’
Virkar finally managed a slurred question. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to help you, of course!’ Raashi grinned. ‘You’re a hard man to find, though. I looked for you in over twenty hotels till I got to Katrak Villa. Pesi was kind enough to guide me here. I was just heading to the bar to join you.’
Virkar stood in the middle of the road, shifting from one foot to the other, not knowing how to react.
Raashi noticed his discomfort and asked teasingly, ‘So, are we going to continue talking like this in the open, or should we head to the bar?’
Virkar hesitated. ‘Uh…I don’t… There is no place inside. It’s packed.’
Raashi nodded and turned the key in the ignition. She started backing up the car. ‘No problem, Inspector. I’ve taken a room at Katrak Villa too.’ She paused and added, ‘We can either talk in my room or in yours. You decide.’ She stepped on the accelerator and expertly reversed the car down the path and on to the main road. Virkar was left standing in the dark with only his Bullet for company and the buzz of the three and a half pegs of Doctor’s brandy rapidly disappearing from his system. He stood motionless for almost a minute, debating his next move. Then, straddling the Bullet, he fired up the engine and muttered under his breath, ‘Bhagwan jab deta hai, toh thappad kaan ke neeche deta hai.’
As the tail light on Virkar’s Bullet receded down the darkened path, the killer emerged from Ryewood Bar and took off his floppy cricket hat from his head. Folding it up and shoving it into his trouser pocket, he began to walk towards the main road.
24
‘He’s killing me,’ flashed the message in front of his half-shut eyelids. He picked up his phone and read the text that had woken him up in the wee hours of the morning.
This has to be another one of her stupid, flirtatious jokes, was the first thought that popped into his groggy head. He let the phone slip out of his fingers and on to the bed. Turning, he snuggled into his blanket and let himself slip back into its warm cosiness. As sleep overtook him again, he wished Tracy would see reason and get over her obsession with the Smooth Operator.
The killer snapped out of his reverie; the events of that fateful night in 2004 never stayed far from his mind. Be careful what you wish for, just in case it comes true, thought the killer as he walked along the six kilometres of dark highway that stretched between Khandala and Lonavala. He was careful enough to walk in the trench that ran along the highway so that he wasn’t in the direct path of any oncoming vehicle, especially one whose driver was drunk. The clouds that had brought the insistent drizzle earlier in the day had passed by now, leaving the moon to light his path. The wind blew cold against his face as his mind wandered back to the morning after he had received that text message from Tracy.
That day, he had slept almost until noon. Feeling hot and dehydrated when he had finally woken, he had reached for the bottle of water on his bedside table. As the cool water gushed down his throat, he remembered Tracy’s text from the previous night. He still didn’t believe her text had meant anything serious but feeling a little regretful about not having returned her call, he decided that Tracy had been ignored enough. He groped around his bedsheets and found his phone. Bracing himself for Tracy’s anger, he pressed the return call button.
‘This phone is out of coverage area,’ the recorded voice informed him. He tried her number again after a few minutes, only to get the same automated message.
‘She’s p
robably picnicking on some hilltop with her blessed Smoothy,’ he had muttered to himself.
However, a strange uneasiness niggled at the back of his head. He tried her number throughout the day and got the same response. By early evening, he began to grow restless. He started thinking of all the possible ways that he could get in touch with her in Khandala. Soon, he realized that he had no other option but to contact the Smooth Operator. But he didn’t know anything about this man bar the nickname Tracy had given him. He wondered if this man was well-known in Mumbai’s social circles as the Smooth Operator or if it had solely been Tracy’s nickname for him. He wished for the umpteenth time that he had asked Tracy for the man’s real name. But no, he had been too busy sneering at her liason with him to do so.
He rushed to a nearby cyber cafe and searched for ‘Smooth Operator’ on the Internet. He only came up with several listings for the pop song, Smooth Operator, sung by a British musician called Sade. Frustrated, he then searched the Internet for Tracy’s friend, Nigel Colasco. He was the one who had introduced Tracy to the Smooth Operator. There were a few people listed under that name, but only one matched the kind of professional profile that Tracy had spoken of. Luckily, he found the phone number of Colasco’s NGO. He then headed to the nearest STD booth and called the number. Three rings later, the phone was picked up by a peon. After two minutes, though, he hung up, having been informed that Colasco was out of town on some urgent business. Apparently, some friend of his had borrowed and crashed his car in Khandala. A knot formed in his stomach. He instantly knew that something was very, very wrong.
The following morning, he packed a bag and made his way to the train station. He bought himself a ticket to Lonavala and, while waiting for the train to arrive, he bought every possible newspaper at the A. H. Wheeler stall. Sitting on a bench in one corner of the railway platform, he rifled through every page, hoping against hope that he would not come across any bad news. But buried deep within the inner pages of the Times of India’s Mumbai edition was a small report that reported that a British woman called Tracy Barton had died in a car accident in Khandala two nights ago.
By now, the killer had reached a ridge next to the highway that jutted out over the valley between the ghats. He walked up to the edge of the ridge to the point where the earth suddenly disappeared, creating a steep fall of about 200 metres. A familiar knot of fear began to form in his stomach as he thought of the day he had last stood there in 2004, trying to look down into the valley to spot the exact point where Tracy’s airborne car had met the valley floor.
25
A thin ray of sunlight broke through the thick foliage outside Virkar’s window and fell directly on his shut eyelids. Feeling the heat, he opened his eyes, only to flinch when the unrelenting beam hit his corneas. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up and looked around the room, heaving a sigh of relief when he saw that he was alone…and still fully clothed. He raised himself off the bed and walked into the attached bathroom. Peeling off his clothes, he stood under the shower as the memory of last night came flooding back to him.
Raashi was waiting outside his room when he had reached Katrak Villa on his Bullet. Realizing that there was no getting away from her, he unlocked his door and opened it to the embarrassing sight of his wet clothes and underwear drying on a chair kept right under the ceiling fan. Excusing himself, he quickly transferred his wet clothes to the towel rack inside the bathroom. When he returned to the bedroom, he saw Raashi sitting on the same chair with the now familiar amused expression on her face—an expression that never failed to annoy him.
Suddenly, she became business-like. ‘Your colleague, Senior Inspector Sonavane, is quickly moving forward with the investigation,’ she ventured. ‘He has already arrested three different men who match the description of the Compass Box Killer and is interrogating them. He is sure that one of them will turn out to be the actual killer.’
The last part of her sentence was said with a raised eyebrow, as if wanting Virkar’s concurrence. Virkar didn’t say anything, staring at the rain-lashed night through the window as he sat across from her on the edge of his bed.
‘So what have you found here…in Khandala?’ Raashi finally asked.
Virkar remained silent.
Raashi sighed. ‘Look, Inspector, I’ve already told you that whatever you share with me is off the record. I…I…just feel very guilty about how my reports affected you. I really want to help.’
Virkar looked directly into Raashi’s luminous brown eyes. Thank God she isn’t wearing her blue contacts tonight. He had always wondered why she wore blue contacts when her eyes were a naturally beautiful colour. Gazing at her intently, he realized that there was something different about her today. There was no rebuke or sarcasm written on her face. Rather, he saw something he had not seen before—an earnestness that led him to believe that what she was saying must be genuine. Mentally debating how much to share with her, he began to speak. Hesitant at first, he slowly opened up and soon, his thoughts and theories began to flow freely as he told her everything—how Akurle had been the policeman in charge of Tracy’s case, how Dr Bhandari was the doctor who had signed Tracy’s death certificate and how Nigel Colasco was the man who had buried her in the ground. He told her about his theory of the conspiracy hatched by the three men to make Tracy’s death look like an accident. Virkar added that he felt the conspiracy could have been hatched at the behest of the fourth conspirator, namely the Smooth Operator. And, of course, the possibility that the Compass Box Killer might have been a hidden fifth conspirator—one who had been a part of the cover-up earlier but had later decided to go against his co-conspirators. Perhaps someone unknown to the dead men, otherwise they would have tried to stop his killing spree. But why after nine long years? Why not earlier?
Raashi listened to him patiently and then asked him a simple question: ‘Have you checked the hospital ward where Tracy’s body was kept? Maybe Colasco was trying to tell you that the clue to the conspiracy lies in that ward?’
Virkar reacted as though he had been struck by lightning. ‘Aai cha gho!’ he cursed under his breath for not having thought of a clue that had been staring him in the face. He rose to his feet and gave Raashi a firm handshake, thanking her profusely. He wanted to find that hospital as soon as he could.
But his body suddenly refused to comply with him. His journey to Khandala, the events of the day and the three and a half pegs of Doctor’s brandy had all taken their toll on his body. He sat back down on the bed, feeling tired to his bones and completely drained of energy.
‘You need to rest,’ Raashi said as she got up and made her way to the door. She turned to look at him one last time and broke into a wide smile. For the first time since he had met her, Virkar could not interpret the attractive crime reporter’s expression and the slight dilation of her pupils. What she said next only increased his confusion. ‘Well, Inspector, I hope you’re not so tired tomorrow.’
And leaving him with that thought, she left the room. Virkar slumped back on his bed, allowing sleep to overtake his senses. He didn’t remember anything after that.
Now, as he turned off the tap and reached for his clothes drying on the towel rack, he decided to deal with the reporter later as there was a potential lead to be followed and he had no time to lose. Grabbing his wallet and his motorcycle’s keys, he walked out of the door, crossed the veranda and headed towards the small parking compound.
But just as he entered the area, his feet came to a sudden stop. Raashi was casually leaning against her car, texting on her mobile phone. She looked up at him with a broad smile.
‘Good morning! Shall we take my car, Inspector?’ she asked.
‘I…I…don’t…’ Virkar fumbled for words.
But Raashi cut him off. ‘You weren’t thinking of going alone, were you?’ She threw him a challenging look.
Virkar tried to evade the question. ‘I…I first have to find out where Tracy’s body was kept.’
‘At the Government Hospital in K
handala; they have a small morgue there,’ she replied immediately.
Smiling at Virkar’s flabbergasted expression, Raashi added, ‘Uff oh, Inspector, you think you’re the only one with investigative abilities? I’ve been up since dawn, making a string of phone calls.’
Virkar realized that he had lost the battle, but he was not going to lose the war. ‘I only travel by my Bullet,’ he said, taking brisk steps towards his bike. As he mounted it and turned the key in the ignition, Raashi flashed him the same enigmatic smile she had the night before. In a flash she was next to Virkar’s Bullet, swinging one leg over the back seat as she straddled it. Placing a soft hand on Virkar’s shoulder, she said, ‘Ready to take me for a ride, Inspector?’ The confusion rose in him once again, but this time it was mixed with the embarrassment that made blood rush to his ears. To cover it up, Virkar accelerated the Bullet and roared out towards the main road.
26
‘Tracy Barton? Ah, yes, I remember her. An unfortunate accident case that occurred in…2003…no, 2004. The body was shattered from head to toe…very sad!’ said Dr Tupe, the chief of the government hospital, letting the corners of his mouth droop. Something in his bulbous eyes, however, didn’t read right to Virkar. Raashi and he were sitting opposite the doctor in his small office chamber at the Khandala Government Hospital.
‘Was her body kept in a ward before she was moved to the morgue?’ asked Virkar, looking around the small room whose walls were adorned with medical diagrams and duty charts. ‘Were you on duty that night, Dr Tupe?’