by Piyush Jha
A little orphan who had grown to become a killer.
31
By late evening, the garden behind the C.G.S. Colony on Antop Hill was full of people out for an evening stroll. A group of motivated women from a local resident association had converted the plot earlier used as a garbage dump into the flourishing green oasis that it now was. This shining example of citizens’ initiative was triggered the morning people living in the buildings around had found a fresh corpse lying in the garbage. Hence, the women of the society had taken it upon themselves to turn the dump that was a refuge for drug addicts into a middle-class haven.
As Virkar strolled along the walking track in the garden while trying not to upset the rhythm of the strolling residents, his eyes searched through the dying light, trying to catch sight of Lourdes D’Monte. The children playing outside Lourdes’ C.G.S. colony building had told him that Lourdes aunty was out for her evening walk around this garden. Suddenly, Virkar saw her walking purposefully a few steps ahead of him, ridiculously attired in a polyester skirt-blouse and sports shoes. Deep in conversation with another woman wearing similar clothes, she was huffing and puffing along the circuitous walking path, trying hard to melt the kilos that had crept up on her over the years. Virkar didn’t want to surprise her, so he increased his speed and walked past her. Reaching a bench that lay ahead, he sat down, waiting for her to notice him as she came up the path. Lourdes saw Virkar when she was still about fifteen steps away from him. A look of discomfort crossed her face as she recognized him as the same policeman who had knocked on her door at an early morning hour not so long ago. But it disappeared as soon as Virkar flashed her a friendly smile. He rose from his seat and greeted her politely. In turn, she stopped and stood next to him, asking her friend to carry on.
As soon as Lourdes’ friend was out of earshot, Virkar spoke. ‘I’m sorry for having come unannounced, but I couldn’t get through to your mobile phone.’
An expressionless Lourdes replied, ‘I suppose I must at least thank you for coming at a decent hour, Inspector Virkar.’
Virkar smiled sheepishly and ran his fingers through his hair.
Loudres continued, ‘I keep my phone switched off on Sundays so that I’m not disturbed by unnecessary people. Besides, I go to church for service.’
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ Virkar ventured.
Lourdes’ face hardened. ‘I’ve spoken to our Parish priest and he’s promised to take me to the Archbishop if I’m troubled by the police.’
Virkar realized that it was not going to be easy this time. ‘Look, I just need your help to find Tracy’s killer. I’ve been to her grave, may God rest her soul in peace.’
Lourdes solemnly drew the sign of the cross against her body, but her voice was icy. ‘As I understand from the newspapers, you are off the case, Inspector.’
‘I don’t have to be on the case to find justice for the innocent,’ said Virkar without batting an eyelid. Lourdes’ expression softened. This was the opening Virkar needed. He got straight to the point. ‘What I’d like to know is, did Tracy ever tell you that she had adopted a child?’
Lourdes’s mouth set in a firm line. ‘Inspector, Tracy was not my close friend. She didn’t share any intimate details of her life with me.’
Virkar, however, refused to back down. ‘But maybe she gave you an impression that she had a special bond with a particular child among those under the care of the Slum Baalak Suraksha. An orphan boy, perhaps?’
‘Inspector, most of our children are orphans. Tracy was in contact with so many of them. She loved them all,’ said Lourdes wearily.
‘I agree. But what I’m trying to get at, Lourdes, is whether Tracy was emotionally attached to any particular boy from among the many she cared for.’
Lourdes fell silent for a moment. Virkar watched her face, hopeful. Then she shook her head. ‘No. No particular boy comes to my mind.’
Virkar was starting to feel desperate now. ‘In our first meeting, you told me that she had been supporting orphans even while she was a student in the UK? Do you know which organizations she sent the money to from the UK?’
Lourdes smiled indulgently at Virkar. ‘To ours, for one. That’s how we got acquainted.’
‘Hmm…where else do you think she would have sent money? Perhaps some other kind of charitable organization…an orphanage, for instance?’
Lourdes lapsed into thoughtful silence.
‘Well, now that you ask me, Inspector, Tracy used to make a lot of trips to different parts of the country visiting NGOs, old people’s homes, orphanages and such. Once, I remember seeing some letters she had left behind in our office by mistake; they were from some orphanage out of town. I don’t remember too clearly now…it was a long time ago.’
‘Do you remember anything at all about the orphanage?’ Virkar asked hopefully.
Lourdes shook her head. ‘No, sorry. It happened years ago.’
Virkar’s shoulders drooped. ‘Well, thank you for trying. If you recollect anything at all, please call me. You have my number.’
Lourdes nodded. Virkar turned and started walking back to his Bullet, debating whether he should go to Slum Baalak Suraksha’s office and speak to the garrulous watchman who had been with the NGO ever since its inception. But he realized that it was a long shot.
Virkar felt frustrated. He was clutching at straws in his attempt to crack this case.
‘Inspector Virkar…’ a voice called out from behind. He turned to see Lourdes hurrying down the walking track towards him.
‘I just remembered something,’ she said, a little breathlessly. Virkar felt a renewed surge of hope.
‘Once, when she came back from a trip out of town, she looked very despondent. When I asked her what was wrong, she didn’t tell me much except that she was missing some special person. I remember thinking at first that it was a lover, but later I felt that it was a child she was talking about.’
‘How can you say this for sure? Did she confide in you later?’ Virkar asked.
Lourdes shook her head and shrugged. ‘No, it was just…maybe just a mother’s instinct.’
‘Hmm…do you remember where Tracy had returned from?’ Virkar asked.
‘From Belgaum,’ she replied without hesitation, her crinkly eyes shining at the memory. ‘I remember because she had made a joke about it, saying that she had returned from “Belgium”, and we had laughed about it.’
Virkar’s heart skipped a beat as he realized that he had just unearthed a very important clue. The Compass Box Killer had been identified as a man, someone who spoke fluent Marathi and Kannada, perhaps hailing from the Maharashtra-Karnataka border.
Somebody from a place like…Belgaum.
32
Belgaum
Hotel Akshata is famous across North Karnataka for its fresh seafood and for the warm hospitality experienced by all those who choose to spend a few nights in the hotel’s simple but comfortable rooms. Located in the Bogarves area in the heart of Belgaum, its majestic frontage blends in among what is left of the old houses of the Bogars or coppersmiths who used to live in that area.
Virkar checked into the hotel along with Raashi at 4.00 p.m. in the afternoon. They had left Mumbai at 6.00 a.m. that morning, breaking only for a quick bite at a highway dhaba on NH 4. The night before, Virkar had landed up at Raashi’s Andheri flat after having told her that he needed to meet her urgently. Virkar was not sure where his relationship with her was headed, but he had grown to respect and like her. He especially appreciated her logical, quick-thinking mind. As soon as he reached her flat, he had begun to babble about his discovery that the Compass Box Killer could be connected to Belgaum. But Raashi had placed a finger on his lips and dragged him into the shower where she had proceeded to wash the tiredness out of his body. He had wanted to talk afterwards but she had led him to bed for a passionate bout of lovemaking. Even when they lay satiated in each other’s arms, Virkar had tried to open the topic for discussion, only to be shushed a
gain. They could get into details on their way to Belgaum the next morning, he was told. Virkar had smiled and immediately fallen asleep then, only to rise the next morning at 5.00 a.m. when he felt Raashi’s gentle touch on his face. He had quickly showered and they had left together on his Bullet, stopping only to pick up some fresh clothes and his backpack from his Bhoiwada quarters.
It was close to 4.00 p.m. when they reached Belgaum, and the first thing they did after checking into Hotel Akshata was to ask for directions to the office of the Belgaum city corporation. Making their way to the corporation office, located nearby, they managed to get a list of orphanages from a clerk who was ready to help as soon as Raashi flashed a winsome smile and a hundred-rupee note at him. As Belgaum was a small border town, the list was not a long one. Virkar picked out the two Christian orphanages as their first points of call. One was the Priory Children’s Home that was located on the outskirts of the Belgaum-Panjim National Highway and would take them a couple of hours to reach. Virkar and Raashi decided to head there the next morning since it was already past working hours, opting instead to visit the other Christian orphanage on the list which was located in the nearby cantonment area of Belgaum.
The Belgaum cantonment area, normally referred to as the ‘Camp’ area, was built by the British during their rule in India. Apart from military buildings, its cool and green environs display a number of well-preserved colonial buildings that house schools, churches and an orphanage. As Virkar and Raashi rode the Bullet through its tree-lined lanes, they felt transported back in time. As they parked the Bullet and walked through the arched gate of St. Francis D’Assisi Orphanage and School, the excited cries of little children getting ready for their evening meal filled the air. In the fading light, Virkar and Raashi could still make out the magnificent gothic building that housed the orphanage, built entirely in Gokak pink stone. When they asked to see the person in charge of the orphanage, a young assistant ushered them into Reverend Anthony’s office.
Reverend Anthony, a tall, thickly bespectacled man with a goatee and the air of an erstwhile athelete, had just returned from daily mass and was getting ready for his evening meal. But on seeing that his visitors had come all the way from Mumbai, he decided to give them a few minutes. Virkar and Raashi introduced themselves as they took their seats.
Virkar decided to adopt a deferential tone when he said, ‘We don’t want to take up too much of your time, Reverend, but we wanted to ask if you happened to know a British lady called Tracy Barton?’
The Reverend’s benevolent expression did not change as he looked at Virkar and Raashi closely.
Finally, he asked, ‘And how are you connected to her?’
‘We’re not. Actually, we’re looking for a person from your orphanage who might have been here a few years ago…someone who may have been her ward.’
‘What is all this about, though?’ asked the Reverend.
‘Well, it’s a long, complicated story. But we feel that this person might be involved in some criminal activity.’
The Reverend looked at his watch and then at them. ‘Sorry, I don’t know of any such boy. Now, if you will excuse me, I have urgent work to take care of.’
‘But do you know Tracy Barton, Reverend?’ Raashi butted in.
The Reverend shook his head. ‘We’re not allowed to give out any information about the children’s guardians to anyone.’
‘So does that mean you did know Tracy? Was she a guardian of someone here?’ Raashi flashed him a winning smile.
The Reverend returned an even broader smile as he replied, ‘My dear girl, I must say that your smile is rather nice. But its charms will not work on me. I’m a priest, you see.’ He walked to the open door of his office and stood there, indicating that he would like his visitors to leave.
Raashi was reluctant but Virkar caught her elbow and gently guided her out. Once under the arched gate outside, he said, ‘There was no need to put the Reverend in a spot. It was clear that he was lying. Didn’t you notice that he referred to the ward as a “boy”? I didn’t mention the ward’s gender.’
Raashi gave him a hurt look that he ignored. He looked around in the dark, trying to spot something.
‘So, Mr Smart Inspector, what are we going to do now?’ Raashi asked.
‘We are going to go back to the hotel and have an early dinner.’
‘And then?’
‘And then I’ll come back here and go through the records in their office.’
Raashi looked a little unsure. ‘Will you be able to get inside?’
‘Of course! His door has the old British style locks. No problem.’
Raashi made a mock grimace. ‘Virkar, sometimes I wonder whether you’re a policeman or a thief.’
‘I’m a bit of both,’ he smiled as he straddled his Bullet.
Raashi hugged him tight as she sat behind him.
‘By the way, did you see any dogs lurking around while we were inside the orphanage?’ enquired Virkar.
‘No, there were no dogs. Why?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘Because I don’t want to be bitten when I come here later tonight.’
33
But Raashi was wrong. Virkar cursed under his breath, wishing he had gone with his instincts and checked instead of taking Raashi’s word for it. The dogs in the orphanage were not merely guard dogs—they were highly trained attack dogs. Why an orphanage in Belgaum needed attack dogs to defend it was a question that Virkar had no answer for. Not that he had time to stand around and mull over this; he was too busy running for his life. The attack dogs, obviously trained to bark only to signal their mates, had waited until Virkar was well inside the orphanage’s premises before cornering him. Whipping around at the first half-bark, Virkar had realized that his way back to the wall that he had jumped over had been cut off by two rapidly advancing Doberman Pinschers. Virkar quickly surmised that the only shelter he had was the orphanage building itself. He decided to run to the part of the building that was closest to him: the office block. As luck would have it, the door to the office block was not locked. Obviously the keepers of the orphanage were quite confident of the efficacy of their attack dogs. Thanking his stars that he didn’t have to clamber up a pipe, Virkar rushed in through the door and slammed it behind him with only seconds to spare. As he stood inside panting in relief, he heard the muted grunts of the two Dobermans as their bodies slammed against the old wood of the door. Before he could fully catch his breath, the light bulb above him was switched on with an unceremonious click. Behind him, a voice said, ‘You were lucky. They’re trained to tear a man’s arm off his body.’
Suddenly, the dogs began to bark loudly. Virkar turned around to see Reverend Anthony standing at the head of the staircase behind him, dressed in pajamas and a maroon, silk housecoat. Virkar wondered whether Reverend Anthony had any other tricks up his sleeve apart from flesh-tearing attack dogs. He eyed the priest’s hands that were clenched inside the pockets of the housecoat. There seemed to be something in there along with the Reverend’s clenched fist, something that Virkar was familiar with and didn’t particularly like. As if reading his mind, Reverend Anthony took his right hand out from the pocket, confirming Virkar’s fears—his fist was wrapped around a small, antique revolver that had been famous at the turn of the century: a Webley make known as the British Bulldog. As the Reverend levelled the gun towards him, Virkar didn’t really feel like taking a chance on finding out whether it still worked. Realizing that there was no other way out, he decided to come to the point. ‘He ’s going to die if you don’t tell me who he is.’
Father Anthony seemed to consider his words while his finger absentmindedly stroked the trigger.
‘Something bad happened to Tracy Barton and I believe he’s taking revenge for it. But they’ll kill him if I don’t get to him first.’
The barking of the dogs now rose sharply behind him and suddenly Father Anthony yelled out loud: ‘Laurel, Hardy, quiet!’ Immediately, the dogs fell silent, much like a switch
had been flipped. The tension in Reverend Anthony’s fist eased as he lowered the gun. Virkar watched him warily as he walked down the stairs towards him. The Reverend reached out for him and, holding Virkar’s hand in his, said, ‘Son, he’s misguided. All he wants is love. Please save him.’
Virkar nodded. Reverend Anthony turned and led him towards his office. Once inside, he walked behind his desk and sat down on his chair. He motioned Virkar towards the chair across the table. After Virkar was seated, Reverend Anthony began: ‘About sixteen years ago, a British aid organization, Arms Around Orphans, contacted us with a unique plan. They would find sponsors in the UK for each orphan that we had here. Each child would be sponsored with school materials, clothes and fees for boarding and lodging. It was through this programme that a fifteen-year-old girl from the UK began to send us money to sponsor a ten-year-old boy. She used to save up her pocket money every month to be able to send us the fifty pounds we required for the sponsorship. Part of the programme was to let there be written and telephonic communication between the sponsor and the child. In this particular case, the relationship between Tracy and the boy grew stronger because Tracy was an orphan as well. The boy flowered into a student with superior intelligence and passed out from here with flying colours. But somehow he couldn’t make it through competitive entrance tests, so Tracy, who by then had saved up enough money from her well-paying job, sponsored him into an engineering college. The boy was one of the best students of the college till the day Tracy died. It all went downhill from there.’ Reverend Anthony lapsed into a meditative silence.