by Monabi Mitra
Bikram kept his face closed and impersonal. ‘Would you like tea? Coffee?’
‘A glass of water, maybe.’ The water was brought and finished in one great gulp, till which time there was no conversation.
‘Now tell me what it’s all about. Is it about Monica Sarkar?’ asked Bikram.
‘How did you know? Has she said anything?’ Leena Mukherjee demanded hotly.
‘I had a feeling about her,’ he lied.
‘How much do you know?’
Bikram spread his hands on the table and replied in a distressed voice. ‘Nothing much. That’s the sad thing about policing. We have to depend on men and women with a sense of responsibility to come and tell us. Just like you. Otherwise all investigation is doomed.’
But she did not bite the bait. There was an uneasy silence as a constable opened the door, deposited a pile of files on a corner table and went out. Leena Mukherjee hesitated for another five seconds and said, ‘For a start, she’s not married to him at all. She’s a street girl whom he had picked up years ago. She latched on to him and moved in with him but he was sane enough not to marry her, which explains this great show of affection. He had been married once before and, as far as I know, there was never any formal divorce. That probably saved him from her clutches, otherwise he would have been dead much earlier.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Bikram fixed his unfathomable grey eyes on her.
‘Because that slut turned to my husband after she got tired of Piloo and took him away from me,’ cried Leena Mukherjee. ‘For the past two years it’s been like this . . . ever since we met at a seaside resort. At first it was quiet. We would meet at our house, or at theirs, and go out for dinner later. I could sense that they had something going on between them from the glances they gave each other. At times, when it was just the two of us, my husband would leave the room to answer phone calls and murmur for hours on the terrace and then keep checking his phone for messages. Did they think I was a fool?’
‘What did you do?’
‘I threatened him with separation and he said that was fine by him. I asked her to lay off but she merely laughed at me. Henceforth, whenever we met, I could sense her amusement at my position. In a way, once it all came out like this, they became quite open about their relationship.’ Her hands were trembling and she lifted the glass up to her lips to empty it of the last drop.
Bikram rang the bell for more water and said, ‘So it went on and you grew to tolerate this relationship. Why?’
‘Because . . . because . . .’ she sighed and calmed herself down. Then she spoke slowly and sadly, ‘I’m well past my prime and don’t have a job. My parents died a few years ago and I have few relations in this world. We haven’t had children and I can’t see very well. He wants to get rid of me, of course, but where would I go? At least here I have a roof over my head and food on my plate. As long as I’m legally married to him he can’t deny me that. I listened to my friends and stuck on. They said he would get over it soon—men usually do. But it gets worse by the day . . .’ There were tears in her eyes.
Bikram felt sorry for her. ‘Does he give her money?’
She nodded.
‘How do you know?’
‘He hardly gives me anything, so I guess that’s where it goes!’
‘And you have no means of earning your living?’
‘No. That’s what they realized too, and then, they had no problem bringing everything out in the open.’
‘Oh!’
There was more silence and Bikram waited. He was beginning to understand why Leena Mukherjee had sought him out.
‘He . . . he used to give me some money every now and then. Piloo did.’ Her voice was sunken. She waited for Bikram to speak but he was looking distant and austere.
‘He felt sorry for me. That’s what he said. After a party broke up they would go into the other room. Piloo and I would sit and talk and he would take pity on me. . . . Pull out a wad of notes from his pocket and stuff it in my bag. He was a good man.’ Her voice broke and fat tears began to roll down from her eyes and glisten at the end of her nose. Bikram blinked and wondered how much more complicated this would get. The door opened a crack and the constable popped his head in, holding a bunch of visitor slips in his hand. Bikram shook his head and the constable retreated.
Leena Mukherjee tried to steady herself and raised a plump hand, the fingers coated with chipped nail polish, to wipe away her tears.
‘Where did you go out for dinner?’
She stared at him. ‘What?’
‘You said how in the beginning you all went out to restaurants now and then. Was there any particular one you liked?’
‘We usually went to Cecil’s on Bowbazar Street.’
There was silence again. Cecil’s was primarily a bar, with very pungent Chinese food served perfunctorily, almost as an aside.
‘She introduced me to beer,’ said Leena Mukherjee flatly. ‘My husband drank too much, but I tolerated it, as I did him. It was Monica who said I should have a go at it myself and I agreed. It was boring to watch them go on and on as if there was no tomorrow. That’s how it all began, as a kind of alcoholic bonding.’
‘And when you and Piloo were alone at home, did you open a bottle or two?’
‘Yes. Why should I lie?’
‘So you will miss him?’ murmured Bikram. She nodded. Two more tears rolled down.
Bikram went on hastily, ‘Did he tell you anything about himself? His past? His feelings about Monica?’
‘He told me what I told you now, but that was all. I would ask him about . . . things . . . but he would turn the conversation around.’
‘What things?’
‘Why he went on with her.’
The telephone rang harshly. Bikram frowned. It was difficult to create an appropriate mood and get people to start talking with jangling telephones and bumbling peons interrupting every few minutes. He said quickly, ‘So Monica Sarkar murdered him?’
‘Of course. She wanted to be free, so that she could turn her full attention to my husband.’
‘But she was with you that evening.’
‘That’s the point. I didn’t want her to be there, but she insisted. Created an alibi while her hired goonda killed him. Also, my husband disappeared with her for about forty-five minutes. It could be that she made him run over to Broad Street, murder him and come back for the puja.’
Toofan Kumar would love to meet you, thought Bikram. Conclusion reached and witness ready, all that was required now was a little misinterpreted evidence.
Aloud he said, ‘Do you realize that you are actually accusing your husband of homicide?’
Leena Mukherjee shrugged her shoulders. ‘The truth must be told. That is what Goddess Kali would want.’
‘Is there anything else you would like to tell me?’
‘I’ve said all there is to say.’ Leena Mukherjee picked up her bag quickly and prepared to leave.
I’ve said all there is to say, thought Bikram. Not a simple ‘no’. If I’m not mistaken, there is something more. Should I press for it? But she had risen and Bikram felt, intuitively, that this was not the right time.
He scribbled something on a pad and handed it over to her.
‘My cell number. In case you want to speak to me again.’ She nodded, clasping it in her hand. Perhaps the interview had been stressful for her. With a sudden jerky movement Leena Mukherjee stumbled across the room. At the door, she turned around and hesitated, then said, ‘All right then,’ and went out.
Bikram watched her clumsy exit and frowned. The information she had just given him sounded too convenient to be useful. How important was the information she was withholding from him?
* * *
As Bikram sat in silence after Leena Mukherjee’s departure, a brown envelope from the Broad Street police station arrived at his desk. He tore it open and a diary and key popped out. The key had a numbered slip attached to it with a twine; the diary had Kolkata Bank printed on it
, with the bank crest embossed underneath it in white. Bikram opened it. There fluttered on his table a bank statement for the months ofApril to July, showing a balance of fifteen lakh rupees. There was also an unused cheque book and income tax return papers which showed that Piloo Adhikary, the owner of Laser Dealers, had made substantial deposits of one hundred and seventy thousand rupees a year. That would mean he showed an income of about fifty thousand rupees per month. Bullshit! thought Bikram. How did he account for the money from his movie production house? Bikram’s silver eyes stared unseeingly at the clock on the wall and its handsome Roman dial for about a minute. The key was probably to Piloo Adhikary’s bank locker; the fact that it had been handed over tamely showed that his next of kin had no use for it.
After this, Bikram skimmed through the statement and noted down in his writing pad the amounts deposited and withdrawn. Following which, he adorned the page with a few cartoons of dogs with floppy ears and pointed snouts. Then he sat back and dialled a number.
‘When do you return?’
The voice at the other end sneezed and blew its nose copiously, then said shakily, ‘Perhaps never.’
‘You’re ill.’ Bikram sounded concerned. ‘How long has it been?’
‘Three nights running. We’re in an abandoned school building with a million flies by day and a zillion mosquitoes by night. I thought it would be a day raid, so I didn’t pack a pillow or coverlet and it gets damp and chilly at dawn. Uhh . . . uhh . . . achhew!’
Another tremendous sneeze. ‘What does Toofan Kumar say?’
‘That we continue to warm our arses here, because his informer is convinced the bank robbers are in the next village. Can you get us out of here?’ The voice sounded desperate.
‘I’ll speak to the inspector general. Meanwhile there’s a homicide waiting for you. Movie producer killed on Diwali night.’
‘I know,’ Ghosh’s voice was nasal. ‘I thought you would be called back from leave, malaria or not. Ashu Das tries hard but doesn’t have that zing. They should send him on these raids and spare me. My phone needs to be charged, but it’s a three-mile walk to the village and my bones are old, so I’ll hang up, if you don’t mind, hoping that you’ll rescue me.’
‘I will,’ promised Bikram. ‘I need you here.’
7
‘. . . the police, although they have progressed slightly, continue to lag far behind the rest of the public services . . .’
Chotu was trimming tobacco when he heard the cars pull up at the house. He heard the creak of the thana van as the policemen dismounted. He knew the sounds of all the police station vehicles by now—their dismal rattle, the peculiar, heavy thud of ill-maintained car doors being slammed, followed by the crunch of boots. He craned his neck for a better view. There was Biswas saab with his security guard, who still owed Chotu a hundred rupees’ worth of lemon juice. There were two strangers with him, possibly policemen, though one would never guess by the look of them, and Chotu had never seen them before. One cut a suave figure in a check shirt and rolled-up sleeves, talking to Biswas saab and looking at his watch, while behind him stood the most winsome-looking policewoman he had ever seen. Chotu’s heart leaped at the sight of the lithe girlish figure who was staring up at the house, her gleaming highlighted hair caught in a loose ponytail. What a piece of goods! Chotu abandoned his tobacco, slid down his throne and loped off towards the house. He could always pretend to be taking orders for Sprite if anyone pushed him out of the way!
Bikram had armed himself with Sheena Sen to deflect another complaint to the Women’s Commission by Monica Sarkar in the event of an ugly scene. He had also asked Biswas to introduce him and begin proceedings because years of policing had taught him to be alert and sensitive, but, above all, cautious, as the first step in a successful investigation. The door was opened by a maid who looked disgustedly at Biswas, appraisingly at Bikram and curiously at Sheena Sen. Beyond the door, Bikram could see a dog crouching beside a sofa, gazing intently at them. Biswas shrank back. ‘Tie them, quickly,’ he commanded. But Sheena Sen had bounded forward and was now standing before the dog, making friendly noises. The dog bent its head forward a little, sniffing warily, as Sheena cooed to it softly. ‘Look at her!’ Biswas stared incredulously at Sheena Sen and then looked askance at Bikram who was, of all things, smiling. The dog moved forward slowly and wagged its tail a fraction of an inch. Sheena Sen stood still as the dog smelled her, then circled round her once and put its paws up on her thighs. ‘They’re tame.’ The voice came from an inner doorway. Bikram looked up at a middle-aged woman with sallow skin and reddish hair and a hard but hungry air of sexiness about her. There were two more dogs behind her. One had floppy ears tinted black and white, and bright, intelligent eyes. The other was a scrawny puppy that looked emaciated with a patch on its back where the fur had fallen out. The black-and-white dog watched them as the puppy wiggled up to Biswas, who leapt out of the way with an angry screech.
Bikram knelt down and picked up the puppy. Its tail hung down limply and its blunt claws pressed against his hand. As he looked into its weak eyes he could sense it trembling at his touch. He stroked it with his slender fingers and without looking up, asked, ‘Is she ill?’
‘Very. She might not make it.’ The voice was still diffident and unfriendly, but something else had crept into it. Bikram sensed tenderness for the dog and wonder at both his and Sheena Sen’s unprecedented police behaviour. It was a stroke of luck that Sheena liked dogs and was displaying such affection for a pack of mongrels. Perhaps this luck would help him out with the rest of the case. They all stood frozen for a moment in an extraordinary tableau: Sheena Sen patting the dog as it balanced itself delicately and arched its head to look at her, Bikram caressing the whiskered muzzle of the dying pup and the black-and-white dog eyeing them intently from its mistress’s side. Biswas looked from one to the other in disbelief. Then Monica Sarkar spoke, ‘Have you buried the ones who . . . died that day?’
‘No we haven’t, but I give you my word that we will once forensic finishes with them,’ said Bikram gently.
‘Perhaps the two of you will understand . . . the way . . . I feel for them and the way they died,’ said the woman sadly. Then she jerked her head towards the thana officer, ‘He will not.’
Bikram put the puppy down, looked at her, and said, ‘If you help us, we may be able to find out who did it. Nothing can bring back the dead, but perhaps the living will find peace when justice is done and the torments of murder turn upon the doer himself. At least it will seem like a moral universe.’
There was no knowing if she had understood him. She stared ahead, as if she was looking through an open window, then turned around and walked in. Bikram nodded to Biswas. ‘We’ll take it from here,’ he said quietly. ‘You can leave.’
With a feeling of relief at returning to the real world, Biswas left.
‘Sit down,’ said Monica Sarkar in a throaty voice. Her manner had suddenly changed and she seemed anxious to get rid of them. ‘More questions, I see. I had told that other policeman I wouldn’t talk to him so they must have sent the two of you along. Is there any part of our lives that is still unexplored?’
‘Yes,’ said Bikram unexpectedly. ‘Your exact relationship with Piloo Adhikary.’
Monica Sarkar looked at him amusedly. ‘As if you didn’t know! My wonderful neighbours must have been complimenting me behind my back, so I won’t deny the fact that when we first moved in here I was his girlfriend.’
‘So you aren’t his wife!’ Sheena Sen spoke up.
‘But I am, little girl. Here’s the photocopy of our marriage registration certificate together with the originals for you to compare. He married me two and a half years ago.’
Monica Sarkar reached under the sofa, brought out a plastic shopping bag and tossed it at them. Cocking her head to one side she looked theatrically at them.
‘Then you inherit whatever he had. Assuming he didn’t have an earlier marriage and children.’ This time Bikram asked his
question meekly.
The eyes became hooded and sly. ‘No other marriage that can be traced, you may be sure of that.’
‘Why did you have such dangerous drugs lying around in your house just like that?’
‘We brought in strays every now and then, and sometimes they were badly injured. There are very few pet clinics in town where they operate on dogs and keep them for post-operative care. Also, in case you didn’t notice, one of our bitches is pregnant. We had a boy who knew vet stuff and would come here to do minor surgeries and things. Hence the medicine.’
Her voice had become toneless and her eyes strayed nervously behind her. Her fingers worked up and down and Bikram too sensed that she was nervous. The thana and Ashu Das must have gone over this part of the story over and over again. The sick puppy staggered up from its place in the corner and walked unsteadily out of the room. The black-and-white mongrel twitched its nose and ears and scratched itself, then shyly followed the puppy.
‘Ah yes, Bishu! The dog handler-cum-doctor.’ He would meet Bishu at the police station later in the day.
Swiftly Bikram moved on to the next question. ‘And what exactly did your . . . husband do?
Monica Sarkar, who had obviously been waiting for more questions on Bishu, blinked. ‘I’ve told the police. Laser Dealers was the name of our agency.’
‘Our agency? Then it was a joint venture?’
‘No, it wasn’t, legally. I just used the phrase offhand.’
‘Was the agency so profitable that it left your husband money to invest in movies?’
‘Oh, that! It was just his recreation, like gambling. Loved to be part of the starry crowd, even if they were all B-graders. Flirted with some of the young girls before giving them bit parts. It was all very filmy, very silly, but I let him have his bit of fun.’