by Monabi Mitra
To calm his mind he switched on his mobile phone which vibrated with a series of messages announcing ten missed calls. Five of them were from Raja, a small-time goon and his informer. Even as he read through the others on the list, the phone buzzed. It was Raja again, sounding distressed.
‘How are you, sir? I’ve been trying your line for the last two days.’
‘I’m OK.’ It was a measure of his melancholy that Bikram did not wonder about how Raja knew.
‘I’ve prayed for you at Kalighat. You’ll be all right, sir.’
‘Thanks.’
‘After that you have to eat lots of food. I will send you some good country chicken from my village home, what’s sold in Calcutta is all fake.’
‘Very well.’
‘I’ll send in special prayers this Saturday, it’s an auspicious day. Nothing and no one can harm you as long as I’m around. I wish I could see you, but that’s the trouble of being what I am.’
‘You take care, Raja.’
‘And you too, sir.’
Bikram switched off the phone again and fell back on the bed.
And so, when I die, there will be only three to mourn for me, he thought. Shona, Raja and perhaps Ghosh.
He rolled wearily over and tried to go back to sleep.
5
‘Major crime problems cannot be solved by haphazard hunches. Persistence, courage, intelligence, training, and experience are required in the investigation of these crimes and the apprehension of the perpetrators.’
Bikram spent the 28th of October ruthlessly attacking his email inbox, deleting, marking and stacking whole pages of unread messages. He seldom replied to any. After that he had an idea and googled for Shona Chowdhury. He was surprised to find 196,000 links to her and horrified to note that at least ten of these had photographs of the two of them shot at clothes launches and parties besides other images popping up on personal web pages. In most of these he appeared hard-faced, unsmiling and somewhat austere, which Bikram found oddly consolatory.
To recover from his discomfiture he did some stretching exercises and then leaned back on the floor. He was exhausted easily after his illness, but more than the weakness it was boredom that annoyed him. He felt tired and listless and decided that this past month had been wrong from the very start. They should have gone on a trip but Shona’s shooting schedule had been demanding and inflexible. He thought of himself and Shona and the increasing weakening of the invulnerable exterior which he presented to others because of their romance. Their worlds were colliding too fast to stay rigidly apart any longer. In any case, was that desirable? He was in his mid-thirties now and Shona was twenty-nine going on thirty. Decisions would have to be taken soon. He let his mind idly flit from office to home, from the present to the past, over disappointments and successes, the deaths he had encountered and the sadness he had seen.
He thought of the first dead body he’d seen, lying squashed and mutilated on a railway track, and the first arrest he had made in a case of a maggoty corpse retrieved from a taxi boot. He wondered whether he should have been a professor, as his father had always wanted, and remembered the unease at home when he had chosen to be a policeman instead.
The ceiling fan spun and whirled and the noise was soothing.
The telephone trilled an insistent ring.
Bikram let it ring on for ten seconds before answering.
It was a crime-beat reporter he knew for long. They had studied for the civil services exam together and while Bikram had been mildly successful, his friend had landed on the other side of the fence. They sparred and fought over hot tips and headline news but respected each other’s need to earn a living over loss and grief, albeit from opposite ends.
‘It’s time to return to work again. Have you seen this morning’s news?’
‘Not yet. Which paper?’
The reporter mentioned a paper and said, ‘It won’t do! You’ll have to come back. Your replacement is wreaking havoc. That woman is baying for his blood and we press hounds are licking our chops wanting more!’
By this time Bikram had picked up the newspaper and spread it out on the floor.
Cops Do It Again
The Crime Branch officer in charge of the Broad Street murder case has been accused of harassment by the dead man’s wife. According to family sources, Ms Monica Sarkar was subjected to undue misbehaviour by the investigating officer during a round of questioning at her residence. Ms Sarkar is deliberating on taking the matter up with the Women’s Commission . . .
‘Rubbish!’ said Bikram. ‘No policeman would do anything with a homicide suspect.’
‘So she is one,’ said the reporter. ‘Thanks for the tip. I thought so too. Now here’s a counter-tip. I’ve got someone lined up simply bursting to give you information. She wanted your number but I said I’ll set up an interview.’
‘I’m not on the case.’
‘But you will soon be. By tomorrow, if I’m not mistaken. You can reconsider my offer then. Goodbye.’
Bikram put down the receiver and picked up the newspaper. What an ass Ashu Das was! He felt the burden of sitting uselessly at home when mistakes were being made and the police ridiculed. Bikram loved his work and took it as a personal affront when the force was attacked for being inattentive and inefficient.
The telephone rang again and Bikram picked it up absently.
‘When will you rejoin work, Bikram?’
It was a mark of his vexation that Prem Gupta had jumpstarted the conversation without preamble.
‘In three days’ time, sir.’
There was an awkward pause. Bikram said, ‘I’ve been following the newspapers and the report this morning sounds particularly malicious. That woman will have to be handled carefully; she seems loaded with ammunition against us.’
‘Handled, yes, but by whom? Few have your tact and flair.’
‘If you want me to . . .’
‘I do,’ said Prem Gupta, his usual measured tones underlined by mute pleading. ‘Not,’ he added hastily, ‘if you need more time to recuperate and get your strength back after the illness. Malaria, was it?’
But he had rung up on the landline number, which meant he had obviously checked up on Bikram’s whereabouts.
‘I’m all right. I can join back.’
‘I’ll tell Ashu Das to drop the files at your place on his way home so that you can look at them before you start. And don’t
worry, I’ll tell Toofan that you are in charge.’
* * *
A beleaguered Ashu Das stopped by late in the evening to deliver the two pink cardboard files, only to find that Bikram was out. The cook led him to a chair and ran off to phone Bikram and get a glass of water for his guest. Ashu Das spent the time looking around curiously. So this was the man’s home! A stylish-looking sofa set with a jacquard cover. Sidetables with brass lamps and raw-silk lampshades. A dhurrie on the floor with lush tropical flowers printed on it. A stack of magazines in a wrought-iron magazine stand. A woman’s hand had set out this room and Ashu Das had a fair idea of which woman it was. The decor had a cool measured look to it that reminded him of Bikram’s eyes. Well, he would have to meet those eyes now and explain what had gone wrong. That bitch! Ashu Das was torn between jealousy towards Bikram for being put on the case and the satisfaction of knowing that Monica Sarkar would now have to deal with an artful adversary.
Ashu Das had expected Bikram to be cold and truculent but was taken aback to find that he was not. Tea had been brought in along with a plate of biscuits, when Bikram entered. The lamps had been switched on and there was a plush feel about the surroundings that Ashu Das couldn’t help comparing with the rickety furniture in his own house, complete with a Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose calendar and an abandoned children’s bicycle. Some guys had all the luck! Fancy girlfriend, fancy flat, city posting, inspector general’s blue-eyed boy, and so goddamn lucky when it came to solving cases.
‘Bad luck, Ashu,’ said Bikram warmly, as if he could read A
shu Das’s thoughts. ‘Who would have thought the woman had such contacts in the press? They are usually measured when it comes to reporting about homicide suspects. What did she get so angry about?’
Ashu Das related what had happened and said, ‘She was disconcerted every time I asked her about her dinner and about her husband’s past.’
‘So we’ll have to look into those first.’
Ashu Das shrugged. ‘Not we. I’ve been taken off the case now and there’s a feeling that you will be able to handle it better. I made a mess of things, although I tried,’ he said diffidently.
Bikram was staring at the sketch of the scene of the crime. He remembered the dead man with the empty vial and syringe placed dramatically beside him.
‘To be killed by an anaesthetic drug suggests some rudimentary medical expertise. You and I wouldn’t know how to prepare an injection and push it in. Has the helper called Bishu been questioned?’
‘His address has been tracked down. We were supposed to bring him in, but he wasn’t at home and we moved on to other things.’
‘But that’s terrible; he could very well have done it. Why this delay in getting him?’ Bikram said severely.
‘We were concentrating on Monica Sarkar,’ said Ashu Das defensively. ‘There’s too much to do and too few people to work with. We’ve traced Bishu’s address, so he can’t give us the slip. His nephew said he was out visiting his in-laws where his wife is expecting their baby, so we thought we could get him later.’
Aware that a serious mistake had been made of which Ashu Das seemed oblivious, Bikram let the matter drop. He said, ‘Also, you can’t inject a man against his will. Did he have any medical history? Insulin shots or something? Maybe he injected this by mistake?’
‘We looked into that. He was pulling along, according to that horrible wife of his. Had a mild stroke two years ago but was OK.’
‘The question to ask is, did he let the killer in or did the killer let himself in? And why do we assume that there was only one person involved in the attack? I would imagine there were two. One to hold him down, the other to administer the shot.’
‘The TV was on loud,’ said Ashu Das. ‘That’s what Arun Biswas, the officer-in-charge, said. He turned it off once he reached the place. Also, it was Diwali and there were crackers bursting all around. Someone might have come in without being heard. The forensic expert says a duplicate key was used to open the front door.’
‘If it was the wife and she was very clever, she could have got a duplicate key made and pretended that an outsider had come in. I take it she’s the heir. Any will found?’
‘Nope, nothing there.’
‘And if it was an outsider then it was someone with access to the household. To be able to get a duplicate key made. And know where the medicine used to be kept. That could either be the wife conniving with someone else, or Bishu. The one you haven’t got.’
Bikram looked musingly ahead and twirled the twine of the pink folders around his fingers.
‘Where’s the dead man’s mobile phone? Did you get the call details?’
Confusedly, Ashu Das mumbled that he had not. The phone was missing from the night of the murder. They could, of course, check with the telephone company, but he had been too intent on framing Monica Sarkar to make this very routine enquiry.
‘What do you think of the post-mortem report?’
‘It’s ridiculous! How could the doctor claim that the stomach and intestines were empty? Only a man fasting for days on end would have that.’
‘Would you like to have another cup of tea?’
Ashu Das felt sufficiently mellowed to say he would.
Bikram leafed through the file and pursed his lips.
‘Did you get the diary?’
‘Which one?’
‘The one the wife said he wrote now and then. It says so in your interview of her.’
Ashu Das answered most distractedly that he had not seen it in the papers handed over to him from the thana.
‘Does that mean that the investigating officer did not find it, or that he did and forgot to put it on the seizure list?’
Ashu Das shrugged his shoulders. This was yet another slip on his part, but who cared!
Ashu Das rose and said, ‘She smoked all the while that I was talking to her, two days after the murder.’
Bikram’s eyebrows rose. He had a vision of Ashu Das interviewing a witness-cum-suspect who blew smoke rings at him and dragged sexily at her cigarette.
‘And there are dogs in the house. Three or four neighbourhood strays that live inside the house and sleep on the couch and have meat and rice. Do you like dogs?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ said Bikram, leading him courteously to the door.
Damn the man, thought Ashu Das as he trudged back home.
Bikram rang up the reporter who was his friend and said, ‘I will be back in office from tomorrow as you predicted. You can send the mysterious source to my office any time after ten in the morning.’
‘I can bring her along, you mean, and we can both talk.’
There was a moment’s silence, and then Bikram said, ‘You know I don’t do it that way.’
‘But you will have to, this time. I got her, so you meet her on my terms.’
‘That’s not fair. You know her story by now, I presume, so why insist on a joint meeting?’
‘Revenge! You’ve been very quiet all these months. Not a whisper about transfers, departmental politics or police gossip.’
‘But you get your material anyway.’
‘Yes, but what’s the point of having a buddy in the Crime Branch if he clams up periodically?’ The reporter sounded hurt.
‘All right, let’s have a deal. An hour of unlimited news swaps twice a month, but all off the record.’
‘I’ve always been discreet, Bikram. It’s just that I want to know. Everything! You do understand that there are many people who want to know what cops are up to, who are obsessive about them, in fact. And you are an especially glamorous one.’ The reporter sighed. ‘Remember, I could have been your colleague!’
‘Or I yours, if I hadn’t cleared the exam,’ said Bikram sadly.
‘And we both could have been sitting in Toofan Kumar’s chair . . .’ finished the reporter.
‘I’ll take her along and then leave. Truce.’ Perhaps the reporter had also remembered those days and nights of darkness, of relentless, stupefying studying, of two pitiful creatures caught up in a private nightmare of their own while the world frowned and told them to hurry up and get a job.
Bikram took a deep breath.
‘Thanks. I’ll remember this . . . always.’
6
‘Society . . . cheerfully lays . . . serious problems . . . upon the broad doorstep of the police.’
It felt good to be back at work, good to have Mistry jump traffic lights and roar ahead with Lalbahadur, the security guard, sitting imperiously by, good to have the traffic sergeants with their gaiters, shiny boots and sunglasses salute him as he whizzed past. It was like a shot of high-power adrenaline, a heady sniff of coke, to be the hunter after his game, to feel the intoxication of the chase.
When Bikram entered his room he wondered how he could have lived without it all these days. He flung down the pink files, opened the window and inhaled the mingled odours of cigarette, paan and pee, the rose-scented room freshener and the dust that characterized the office. Then, confident that nothing could dampen his buoyancy, he went to say hello to Toofan Kumar.
‘Back again, huh?’
Toofan Kumar looked as if he had been shot in the head. His eyes were watery, face pallid and voice sore as if he had stepped out of a night of hard carousing into daytime office combat. The computer was on and Bikram could tell he had been blogging, and knew what he was about to say would distress Toofan greatly.
It was irresistible and Bikram was human. He said, ‘I would have rested for some more time but then this case came up and the inspector general insi
sted . . .’
‘Stop gloating and get on with your job! It’s that wife of his, trying to gain control over the flat. Anyone could have arrested her. Ashu Das is a good officer. Good and humble. Humph!’
Some things never change, Bikram thought, and returned to his room. He took a moment to look around fondly again before settling down to work. He began by having a word with Biswas. Piloo Adhikary’s phone was still missing, but the thana had found some additional papers they had forgotten to send in, which would be delivered to him by noon. Where were the bodies of the dead dogs? At the veterinary hospital morgue for unidentified bodies, adding to the stink. There was to be an Animal Rights Organization demo outside Biswas’s den for ten minutes late this afternoon, condemning cruelty to animals. As if Broad Street PS had personally organized the killings! What a life!
At eleven-thirty the reporter rang up.
‘You win. I can’t see you this morning, so I’ve sent her along. She’ll be there any moment now. Her name is Leena Mukherjee and she . . .’
‘. . . is the friend at whose house Monica Sarkar went that night,’ finished Bikram. ‘Where did you get such a scoop? And what does she say?’
‘You’ll know soon. By the way, I’ll manufacture some unofficial sources and launch her story tomorrow. And the fact that the top cop is back in action.’
‘Toofan Kumar will kill you,’ said Bikram acidly.
The door opened and a woman came in. She was wearing bright red lipstick, deep black kohl and carried a leather bag with a huge plastic rose on it. It was the woman from the movie hall! She looked uncertain and walked unsteadily, colliding with the office furniture as if she were drunk and Bikram felt himself unconsciously sniffing the air. Shona had been right about her description but perhaps her condition wasn’t clearly visible in the movie hall. Her face was puffed up and blotchy and the dark shade of lipstick and the powder she wore made it look worse. Her hair was cut badly in a shapeless crop and she wore her mobile phone in a jute holder strung like a necklace round her neck. As the orderly pulled out a chair for her she sat heavily on it and smiled. Then she began fretfully, ‘I tried to talk to you that evening at the cinema hall, but you just vanished like a phantom. Then I decided I wouldn’t get mixed up in murder investigations but it was that journalist who made me come here.’