A Cut-Like Wound

by Anita Nair

  But Urmila had already left and paid for her coffee so he would know that she was furious. Gowda sighed. Nothing had changed, it seemed. This had been customary behaviour back when they were together too. He paid for his coffee, ignoring the curious glances, and went out to where Santosh waited, eager and expectant.

  He should call Urmila, he knew. He should explain. And then what? They would have to go back to whatever it was she had been trying to tell him. It had felt good to see her again, hear her, feel the warmth and softness of her skin against his. A part of him yearned to revive all that they had had. Another part, the greater part, balked at the very thought. He had slept around, yes, he had done that. There had been a college lecturer for a while and a hotel receptionist. Affairs that had involved sex and some chit-chat but nothing of consequence had ever been shared. It had meant little more than an appeasement of a physical need. And he never had to deal with either guilt or remorse. But this? Urmila would never be a random fuck. She would need more. Did he have it in him to give her what she expected? And even as Gowda was wondering what to do about Urmila, his phone burst into ‘Kabhi kabhi’. Damn. The first thing he would do was change the bloody ringtone that had landed him here.

  ‘Yes,’ he said into the phone. An alertness, a pulling in of gut, a reining of emotion … the furious rhythm of a ticking mind.

  As Santosh watched, he saw the muddled, flustered-looking Gowda of a moment ago metamorphose into something else. Gowda snapped the phone shut and looked at Santosh. ‘There’s been yet another murder. A young man. They fished him out of Yellamma Lake. His throat has been slit too.’

  It was almost midnight when Gowda reached home.

  Santosh and he had driven to the mortuary first. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll go to Yellamma Lake. I haven’t been there in years. I just need to see the place again,’ Gowda explained to Santosh who, he could see, was itching to go to the crime scene. ‘But first I need to see the body. I need to make sure the MO is the same as the previous ones. One quick look and then I need to get back. I have something to attend to,’ Gowda said, eyes narrowing.

  In the end, the evening had dwindled to nothing as various tiers of procedure were dealt with. Apparently, the boy was a Haryana joint secretary’s son and the father had received a call two nights ago that his son was dead. The father had dismissed it as a prank call. He had spoken to his son only that evening. But when his son hadn’t called for two days, the man began to worry. A missing person’s case was registered. The boy had been identified by the driving licence in his wallet.

  Suddenly, the bureaucracy of two states had swung into action. Gowda watched helplessly, unable to hurry things up.

  Roshan was pretending to be asleep. But Gowda, tired, hungry and furious, wasn’t going to let that stop him. Nor the thought that the peace he had negotiated last night with an apology had lasted a mere twenty-fours. He opened the door and clicked the light on. The boy’s eyes were shut tight. Too tight.

  ‘I know you are awake,’ Gowda said, walking to the side of the bed. ‘Get up.’

  Roshan sat up, blinking furiously.

  ‘Who was he? And what were you doing with him?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ the boy demanded, matching his father’s belligerence with wounded indignation.

  ‘Stop pretending, Roshan. I saw you. I saw you at Gamal with an African man.’

  ‘Osagie,’ Roshan mumbled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s his name. It means God Sent in Nigerian.’

  Gowda picked up Roshan’s wallet from the bedside table and opened it. ‘What are you doing, Appa?’ Roshan asked.

  ‘Looking for drugs … what do you think?’ Gowda ground out between clenched teeth.

  ‘In which case, why don’t you frisk me as well,’ Roshan said, standing up with his arms aloft.

  Gowda stared at him. Roshan met his gaze evenly. The boy was as tall as he was, if not taller.

  Gowda threw the wallet down on the bed with a sigh. ‘So, what were you doing with God Sent?’

  ‘Nothing, Appa. He is a friend’s friend and we were talking … you know, things,’ the boy said defensively.

  ‘In which case, why did he run when he saw me?’

  The boy bit his lip. ‘There’s some trouble with his visa. There was no time to reason with him. He just grabbed my arm and I ran with him, not knowing why. Later, I did tell him that I would have introduced him to you. But he is scared, Appa. They put all of their savings … everything … to come here and study and to be deported means the end.’ Roshan’s voice faded out.

  Gowda sat heavily on the bed. ‘You are either a practised liar or an incredibly naive idiot. I am going to give you the benefit of doubt and accept what you say. The café’s been under surveillance as a place where drugs are bought and sold. You don’t want to get involved in that. If you are sensible, you will understand that it is your life you are toying with.’

  Gowda rose and walked to the door.

  ‘Appa,’ the boy asked carefully, ‘who was that woman with you?’

  Gowda halted. Trading time. You don’t tell Amma about this and I won’t tell her about what I saw. That settled it. The boy was up to something.

  ‘Urmila. We were in college together. She’s visiting Bangalore,’ Gowda said quietly.

  TUESDAY, 9 AUGUST

  ACP Vidyaprasad frowned. SI Santosh looked at his watch haplessly. The other officers shifted in their seats, each creak voicing their impatience. ‘Where is Gowda?’ the ACP growled. ‘Didn’t you come in together?’ He turned his ire on Santosh.

  ‘No, sir, he said he would come on his own,’ Santosh mumbled. Where had Gowda gone? ‘He’ll be here any moment, sir,’ he added. A placatory afterthought of sorts.

  Voices outside. Santosh relaxed. The deep voice was unmistakably Gowda’s. The door opened. Santosh stared in surprise. Gowda had the DCP with him. Deputy Commissioner of Police Sainuddin Mirza. The only man in our entire police force who has any brains and ethics to match, Gowda had explained to Santosh.

  The ACP’s mouth tightened. This was a meeting he had called. What was the DCP (Crime) doing here? And he hadn’t known that Gowda and the DCP were chaddi yaar! The ACP stood up, as did the other officers, saluting briskly.

  The DCP nodded. ‘So officers, we seem to have a peculiar situation on our hands.’

  ‘That’s why I thought we had to call the CCB in,’ the ACP began. ‘With their experience…’

  The DCP nodded at the two men seated at the farther corner of the briefing room.

  ‘So, Stanley,’ the DCP asked, ‘do you think we have a serial murderer on our hands? Gowda seems to think so…’

  ACP Stanley Sagayaraj cleared his throat. ‘That’s my preliminary thought too, sir. But until…’

  ACP Vidyaprasad butted in before ACP Stanley Sagayaraj could finish his thought, ‘That’s exactly my point. Three murders in three parts of the city. One a middle-aged, middle-class man. Another a lowlife from Shivaji Nagar. And the last one, a BPO employee from Haryana. Nothing to suggest a pattern. In fact, the second homicide died of burns. We are clutching at straws.’

  ‘That’s how most investigations begin. With a whiff of suspicion and a mere straw to clutch at,’ Gowda murmured, tapping a pencil on the table impatiently.

  ACP Stanley Sagayaraj’s mouth twitched. Santosh stared at his hands. He felt a hollow in the pit of his stomach. Why did Gowda do this to himself?

  The DCP glared at him. Sometimes, he thought, Gowda’s mouth had to be taped. There was no knowing what he would say. He was a liability to the department … the pity was that the fool didn’t realize his own potential. DCP Mirza had never seen an officer with a finer instinct or acumen when it came to investigation.

  ‘Sir, with due respect, this is India. We don’t have serial murderers here. Gowda is being fanciful,’ the ACP said, pretending to ignore Gowda’s laconic aside.

  Gowda looked up. ‘Are you saying that serial murderers like Auto Shankar, Su
render Koli, Umesh Reddy were the figments of someone’s sick imagination?’

  ACP Vidyaprasad sniffed. ‘Oh, them! Anyway, even if there is a serial murderer at work here, I think the CCB is in a better position to investigate it than we are.’ He threw a glance at Gowda’s face as he pronounced his verdict. He waited to see disappointment shadow it. But all Gowda did was stifle a yawn behind his palm. A vein throbbed in ACP Vidyaprasad’s temple. He thought he was going to pop an artery. ‘Gowda’s station is not equipped to handle criminal investigation of this sort,’ he added.

  Not even the DCP could deny that.

  Gowda was a thorn in the side. A pain in the ass. Not just to ACP Vidyaprasad, but an entire group of officers, all of whom had collectively worked to place Gowda in his rat hole of a station.

  The DCP laced his palms and said nothing for a moment. ‘That’s true. But I think it would be short-sighted of us to not include Gowda in the investigation. We’re all here because of a connection he has made about what could have been perceived as three random murders. Here is what I suggest. Stanley and his team can start independent investigations. And Gowda will also work on the case. Our need here is to catch the criminal. Whether it is a series of random murders or whether we have a serial murderer is besides the point … I hope you understand that, ACP Vidyaprasad.’

  The man flushed.

  ‘Perhaps Inspector Gowda can share his thoughts with us,’ Stanley said quietly.

  ‘Good,’ the DCP said, standing up. ‘Keep me informed. I want to know every single development.’

  The DCP watched Gowda and Santosh walk out with the CCB team. The ACP sidled up to him.

  ‘Sir, I really don’t see the need to bring Gowda in,’ he began.

  ‘I didn’t bring him in. He was the IO on two of the three cases. Giving it to the CCB entirely would demoralize him. The officers need to be encouraged, not discouraged.’

  ‘All that’s fine, sir.’ The ACP’s mouth twisted into a line. ‘But Gowda on his own…’

  ‘Why? Where are you going?’

  ‘I am on leave for ten days starting next Thursday, sir.’

  ‘Well, cancel it then. Whatever it is can wait,’ the DCP said, collecting his cell phone from the table.

  The ACP sighed. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. The DCP was a pompous prick and the ACP had no intention of antagonizing him. But if the DCP thought he was going to cancel his foreign holiday … He would get a medical certificate stating he had the bird flu, kill his mother-in-law off, plead a family emergency, whatever.

  The ACP pulled out his pad and looked at his list. He still had to buy a few things for his holiday. One of the real estate developers had put the holiday together for him and his wife. Five days in Bangkok, three in Singapore. ‘Everything’s taken care of, sir. Air tickets, airport transfer, hotel,’ the real estate developer had said, handing over an envelope. ‘… and this is to buy some chocolates,’ he had added. And then with a coy smile, ‘My man will take you to some interesting places when your wife is resting.’

  The ACP patted his list. He was determined to have his ‘happy ending’ no matter what the DCP said.

  ‘So tell me,’ Stanley said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

  Santosh held his breath. Would Gowda explode? He didn’t take very kindly to being patronized and the CCB man was talking to Gowda as if he were a fractious child who had to be placated.

  Gowda glared at him. Then his mouth twitched. ‘I like that “perhaps Inspector Gowda can share his thoughts with us”. Where did you learn to speak like that?’

  A burst of laughter. ‘I could see that our ACP sir can’t stand your guts. I wanted to fuel the fire some more…’

  Santosh’s gaze darted between the two men. So they knew each other and presumably were friends. That made the next step simpler. Santosh heaved a sigh of relief. He was beginning to feel like Gowda’s elderly spinster aunt to whom Gowda’s well-being had been entrusted. Constantly fretting about him and worrying about what he would do next.

  ‘ACP Stanley Sagayaraj was my senior at college. And my basketball captain for two years,’ Gowda murmured to Santosh as he walked to the table.

  Santosh studied Stanley Sagayaraj. He wasn’t as tall as Gowda but he had looked after himself better. His jet-black skin had a sheen to it, and he had the body of someone who worked out regularly.

  Gowda sat across from the CCB man and pulled out his notes. ‘SI Santosh,’ he said, ‘did a thorough search of both the CCRB and the SCRB for some indication of who else may have used the MO, but came up with nothing.’

  Santosh thought of the hours spent peering at the City Crime Record Bureau and the State Crime Record Bureau. It had been frustrating, but that was the first time Gowda had brought him into the investigation procedure. And so he had sat at the computer, sorting through countless files for some clue as to whether the modus operandi had a precedent. A blow on the head to stun the victim, then the ligature encrusted with glass to sever as it strangled. Santosh had tried every permutation and combination possible. A single MO, two separate MOs, but the records failed to throw up any leads.

  Stanley nodded. ‘So, this is a new boy on the prowl.’

  Gowda shook his head. ‘There is something else…’

  Santosh stared. What did Gowda mean?

  ‘Among the possessions that were found on Liaquat, there was a pearl earring.’

  Stanley leaned forward. ‘And…’

  ‘All three victims this far, Kothandaraman the pharmacist, Liaquat, and Roopesh who was fished out of the lake, were all killed in the same way. They were all healthy males who could have put up a fight, but none of them did. There was clear evidence that Kothandaraman had had sexual intercourse. Traces of semen were found. It was impossible to determine if Roopesh had sex. You can imagine the state the body after almost three days in water. But something tells me that he too had sexual intercourse. Liaquat was not an intended victim. He probably walked in on something he was not meant to see and was rid of for that reason. What if the killer was not alone? What if he worked with an associate? A woman?’

  WEDNESDAY, 10 AUGUST

  Gowda let the ice clink. Whisky sloshed against the sides of the tumbler. He peered at his drink, the golden brown veering to cinnamon at the heart. Or was it a trick of the light?

  Music played, and here and there in the room were clusters of fat candles. Everyone seemed to know everyone.

  A couple sat on a sofa, deep in conversation about their children at foreign universities. Another group stood near French windows opened to let the night breeze in, and discussed microbreweries and Cat Stevens. And yet another group sat on the cane furniture in the veranda and discussed the wine club dinner they had all attended a week ago. Laughter, muted conversation, expensive fragrances, the swish of silk and linen, the sparkle of diamonds. What was he doing here? And with a woman like Urmila?

  He had thought Urmila would never speak to him again, but she had called earlier in the day and spoken to him as if they had parted under perfectly normal circumstances the last time. ‘I am having a small dinner party this evening … just a few friends … in fact, I decided just this morning. I have asked Michael to come as well. Will you join us, Borei?’ she said.

  He had thought it churlish to make an excuse. Especially when she was being so gracious.

  ‘Borei, are you all right?’ Urmila stood at his side.

  He smiled foolishly, shrugged and mumbled, ‘I was just enjoying the colour of the whisky.’

  She smiled back. ‘Perfect! One should look first. Then smell it. Try and assimilate the hues of a single drop before you let your mouth savour it. That’s how your taste buds will learn to match colour with aroma with taste to distinguish one whisky from the other. I do wish you hadn’t added ice to your single malt. It’s sacrilege…’

  Gowda stared at her. What the fuck did she mean, an irate voice in his head demanded. A whisky was a whisky and if she wanted to know the truth, he preferred rum any day. Sudd
enly, he felt a great yearning to be with someone like Mamtha. She didn’t know the difference between a mural and a frieze, and wouldn’t know a single malt if it bit her on the nose, but she was everything Gowda knew. Every mutinous, grumpy square inch of her was familiar territory.

  But another, less belligerent but more stern voice spoke up: You are doing it again, Borei … you are screwing up. All these years, twenty-seven fucking years, you kept her in a secret place in your heart and carried it with you everywhere you went, to the police training college and into the station precincts; to your bedroom and into your conjugal bed; into those secret silent moments you grabbed for yourself; into noisy processions on the road and gruesome murder scenes … She was your oasis of calm through every waking moment and now you want to screw it up again with your boorish policeman behaviour, your prickly defensiveness. Borei, Borei, what are you thinking of?

  Urmila touched his elbow. ‘What are you thinking of?’

  Gowda started. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Urmila, about the other evening, I have to explain…’

  She turned her head. ‘I shouldn’t have. I embarrassed you…’

  ‘No, Urmila, you didn’t. It was…’ Gowda groped for words. ‘I had always hoped that one day you and I…’

  ‘Borei, don’t…’

  ‘No, you have to hear me out. At the café, I saw my son.’

  He saw her eyes widen. He hastened to explain. ‘What worried me was that he was with a foreigner. An African. That café’s been under surveillance. It’s one of the places foreigners and students frequent. A perfect place for drug dealing. So when the African man spotted me, he fled, taking Roshan with him. And I had to chase after them. You understand now, don’t you, Urmila. It wasn’t you…’

  A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Gowda wanted to lean forward and kiss the smile. Touch the bloom in her skin and press his weary eyes against her still unlined cheek. She had aged well. For a woman who was nearly fifty, she could pass for someone in her early forties. Gowda thought of his wife. Mamtha was younger, but she had elderly stamped all over her: the stringy grey hair scraped back into a little bun at the nape of her neck, her starched cotton saris and her old-woman leather bag; her line of a mouth and the faded laughter in her eyes.