by Monabi Mitra
At the sight of Bikram the maid became even more flustered. Chotu raised his hand in salaam and pushed her. ‘Go on, tell him.’
‘I w-w-wanted to ask h-h-her for something so I stopped by on my way back home. The door was open so I thought the dogs had been let out. I went through all the rooms calling her name, but there was no answer. Then I checked the bathrooms, but those were empty too, so I went outside and waited a bit, then looked back and felt scared, I can’t explain why. So I went to Chotu and he took me to the thana.’
‘Why did you come to the house so late?’
‘I wanted some money . . . My son’s school fees have to be paid tomorrow and when I got home I found that my husband had opened my money box and gone off to the liquor shop with whatever he could find. Monicadi would always help me out when I needed money. She deducted it from my pay at the end of the month, or cancelled repayments if I was in real trouble. She is a good woman.’
From the veranda of the adjacent house three heads leaned excitedly over and someone snorted sarcastically.
Bikram motioned to Lalbahadur and went inside, with Chotu and the maid following.
The dogs did not bark. They walked towards him stiffly, sniffed his trousers, circled around Lalbahadur and went back to their corners. There were two of them. Bikram frowned and looked at the maid.
‘Where’s the sick puppy?’
‘Buried outside,’ she said promptly. ‘Seven days ago. There was no one to look after her once all this began.’
‘Did your madam say anything about going somewhere? Perhaps she’s gone to a friend’s house? Locked the door but it opened somehow.’
The maid shrugged as if to say that this was for the police to find out, not ordinary people like her.
‘I tried her number earlier today but the phone had been switched off,’ said the maid.
‘From what time?’
‘From around three o’clock. She had told me to take half a day off so I finished quickly.’
‘Has she taken anything?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Look around. My man will be with you. Don’t touch anything.’
The maid looked around while Bikram sat down glumly on a sofa. When Ghosh entered a minute later he found him sunk in gloom.
‘Dead, I suppose! Where’s the corpse?’ Ghosh’s reaction was unemotional, automatic and predictable.
‘In the Ganges,’ said Bikram despondently. ‘Or perhaps along the railway tracks. I’ve asked the railway police to give us a catalogue of the day’s railway-track pickings. She’ll probably be there somewhere.’
The maid returned. ‘A black bag is missing,’ she announced triumphantly. ‘I remembered looking for it under the box-bed. She used to pack it for short trips. It was a foreign one, shaped like a big handbag but with wheels at the bottom and a handle which slid out.’
‘Ask the railway police to look for a lady with a black handbag with wheels and a handle, Ghosh,’ said Bikram hopelessly. ‘Ask at the airport and the long-distance bus terminus, and check with the car rental services too. Round up Calcutta’s thirty thousand taxis and twenty thousand three-wheelers while you’re at it,’ he finished dully.
‘There’s no reason to get so upset,’ said Ghosh. ‘We couldn’t have arrested her; she had an alibi, and who would have thought she would skip out this way?’
‘Missing link,’ muttered Bikram. ‘There’s something which I should be able to connect, but it’s not happening.’
‘But you must have been near it,’ said Ghosh optimistically. ‘That’s why she left.’
The maid cleared her throat. ‘Can I go now?’
‘I’ll take her statement at the thana and seal the house,’ said Ghosh kindly. ‘You can go home, sir.’
‘And what about the dogs, inspector saab?’
It was the efficient Chotu.
‘What about them? They can stay here, can’t they? That’s what dogs are supposed to do. Guard houses and things.’ Ghosh sounded cross.
‘But these dogs can’t stay alone,’ the maid intervened. ‘Bishu used to look after them when madam and sir were away. They don’t behave like roadside strays at all. They need to be cooked for and cleaned and given companions for times when they are lonely. By the way, she must have fed them before leaving. There are traces of rice and meat in their bowls though I didn’t cook for them this evening.’
‘Why not?’ It was Ghosh.
‘She said she’d give them dinner today.’
‘Fed the dogs before leaving,’ said Bikram slowly. A troubled look came into his eyes. ‘A farewell dinner, perhaps. She loved them with real passion and took the trouble to give them food before going. She knew she would not see them for a long time. Perhaps never.’ His grey eyes became almost transparent as he looked unseeingly ahead.
Ghosh turned to the maid.
‘Can you look after them for tonight?’
The maid laughed. ‘In my shanty? There are a dozen strays there already.’
‘Leave them here, sir,’ said Chotu. ‘They began life as strays, so they might as well end it the same way. Turn them out on the streets tomorrow. They’ll manage.’
‘Never!’
It was the frosty maid again.
‘They were given all kinds of injections; all their natural street-fighting abilities are gone. One snap from another street dog and they’ll be dead.’
They looked at the two dogs, who lifted their heads and stared back. One whined while the other got up and walked around in a circle before flopping down on the floor with his head between his paws.
‘Well, never mind them,’ said Ghosh harshly. ‘Get on now. Off to the thana.’ He dialled his mobile phone and shouted into it for a while, then came back to find Bikram tapping his long delicate fingers on the sofa and still staring unseeingly ahead.
At the sight of Ghosh, Bikram stood up.
‘Tell the men on guard here to be careful. No sleeping on beds or using the kitchen. Get the forensics team to go through the place tomorrow, in case there are signs of a mishap.’
Outside, the verandas were still full of curious heads and windows were flung well open. When the thana car screeched to a halt, a shiver of excitement ran through the onlookers. As Bikram got into his car he could hear, suddenly, a long heart-rending howl from Monica Sarkar’s house. The dogs had understood.
* * *
On the ride back home, the dogs, all dogs, finally got to Bikram. It seemed as though there were examples everywhere of canine wretchedness which men did not care about. Near Park Circus their car skirted the carcass of a stray crushed by a car, with its intestines snaking across the road. At the entrance to his flat he found six mongrel pups, about two months old, sleeping on the dark stairs with twitching noses and thin wasted tummies pushing up and down in short quick breaths. At midnight he could hear a pack of them yammering and barking and a little later, the mournful wail of one turned out of the herd. He spent a sleepless night, depressed and disturbed. At dawn he woke up Mistry and went for his customary walk to the Eden Gardens Park bleary-eyed. Soon, he abandoned jogging and rang up Dolly.
‘Who is it?’ she slurred.
‘It’s me, Bikram. Do you still work part-time for the animal NGO?’
‘Do I what? Hang on; it’s a quarter to six! What do you mean by waking me up at this hour?’
‘A quarter to six isn’t unearthly. The sun will be up soon and so should you. I need you to find a home for two dogs. Not pedigreed ones. By evening today. Please.’
Dolly was fond enough and proud of Bikram in the way that only potential sisters-in-law can be. She was also astute enough to realize that somehow this meant something very important to him.
‘You’ll have to make a small donation.’
‘Anything.’
‘And give us permission to have animal-rights awareness rallies.’
‘Will do.’
‘As well as inaugurate a medical centre for dogs and cats we’re building at Sonarp
ur. And help us identify animal cruelty sites and give us police protection when we go to rescue them.’
‘All right, all right.’ Bikram sounded desperate.
‘I’ll have them in our shelter by noon.’ She smiled. ‘You’re the unlikeliest policeman I have ever met. I read somewhere about the cultured cop but never dreamed there could be something like a compassionate cop. Cops are meant to be heartless.’
‘I know,’ said Bikram. ‘I’m working on it.’
14
‘Exceptional caution . . . must be observed by the police in the investigation of accidents . . .’
Virendra Singh frowned over his morning newspaper and looked irritably at the potted palm before him. The press had lapped up the story of the disappearance of Monica Sarkar and reproduced it with gusto. Damn Bikram! He thought angrily. Prime suspects disappearing in case after case and all the man did was to look distant and dreamy. Virendra Singh had ticked him off sternly after the Diwali-murder woman had vanished into the blue, but he would have liked a little more reaction or, at least, the pleasure of seeing Bikram appear flustered or sheepish. Instead there had only been this heroic calm and a stony I’ll-see-what-I-can-do attitude. Should he ring up the inspector general and absolve himself of all responsibility? Making loud flicking noises to a frightened-looking servant as a signal for more tea, Virendra Singh wondered gloomily what to do.
Across the city Bikram was grimly dialling a number on his phone. It occurred to him that Virendra Singh and Prem Gupta would exchange words during the day and that a meeting would soon be called. He looked at his watch and wondered how much time he had.
Somewhere in suburbia Raja picked up his phone and sleepily fumbled with it. ‘Who is it?’ he asked irritably.
‘It is me,’ Bikram said, a little self-consciously.
The sound of his voice roused Raja into immediate wakefulness.
‘How are you, sir? I knew you would call.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Because I dreamed of you last night. I have intuition,’ said Raja grandly.
‘It’s about a disappearance in the Piloo Adhikary case. His wife, a lady called Monica Sarkar.’
‘You want me to find out if she had links with our world and used them to escape somewhere?’
‘You’re an exceptionally capable and intelligent man,’ said Bikram approvingly. ‘I don’t really need to explain anything to you. Perhaps she has skipped out of here to safety in some other part of India. Perhaps she has been kidnapped or is dead. Equally, she may be hiding somewhere in Calcutta or another town in Bengal. Try and set your machinery into action.’
Raja promised fervently that he would.
‘There’s another person from another case who’s been missing. His name is Murari Koyal. You can sound a red alert for him as well.’ Bikram went on to give Raja a brief account of Murari Koyal’s misdemeanours.
‘I will round up both of them and bring them to you in a week,’ said Raja gaily.
Perhaps he actually will, thought Bikram as he put the receiver down. Beneath his ceaseless chatter and his seeming bird-wittedness lurked shrewdness and vigil. All that Raja required now was luck.
Bikram spent the rest of the day at the office attending meetings, receiving visitors, writing reports. At one o’clock he had to testify in court and persuade the judge that the harmless- looking accused was a smart and confident trickster. At three o’clock he attended a seminar on sensitizing investigating officers on drug offences and listened in amazement while a shapely girl in a formal suit talked about the necessity of legalizing heroin and cocaine so that their usage could be monitored.
At four o’clock Biswas telephoned.
‘Chotu has something important to say.’
‘Who’s Chotu?’
‘The paanwallah from Monica Sarkar’s neighbourhood.’
‘Send him over.’
Half an hour later Chotu entered the room, a little diffidently. Behind him slipped in a boy of about eighteen, with shining inquisitive eyes and a perky air. Chotu motioned him towards Bikram and the boy went down on his knees, trying to locate Bikram’s feet behind the desk so he could fall at them.
‘Ouch!’ said Bikram, knocking his knees against the hard wood while trying to draw himself away. ‘That’s not necessary. Sit down.’
Chotu’s companion tried to slither into a chair but Chotu yanked him aside. ‘No,’ he said in a shocked voice. ‘You can’t sit in saab’s office.’ He turned to Bikram and said, ‘This is my brother, Mohan. He works at a restaurant on Bentish Street called Paking Lights. He’s a waiter.’
‘Bentinck Street, Peking Lights,’ corrected Bikram automatically. ‘What has he been up to?’
‘He has been staying with me for the last two weeks. Another brother has arrived from Munger and accommodation in the city being tight nowadays, I told Mohan he could share my room for the time being.’
Mohan nodded his head and devoured Bikram with his large eyes.
‘I had told him about the 21, Broad Street case, and how I had helped the police.’ Chotu puffed himself out and looked important. ‘I had shown him the house and photos of the dead man’s wife which had been published in the papers. We chatted about who could have done it, off and on, and our minds were full of the blood and the revolver and the dead dogs. Then Mohan went off to his digs. He came back this morning with the Hindi paper. They had printed a picture of Monicadi saying that she has disappeared. He’s convinced he saw her the day before yesterday, at Paking Lights, lunching with a stranger! Mohan remembers her well because the man with her was drunk and vomited in the bathroom, which he had to clean up. He asked the woman for baksheesh but she waved him away.’
Bikram looked at the excited Mohan and mentally gauged him as a witness in a court of law, testifying against Monica Sarkar. Yes, he would do.
‘Tell me in your own words. What happened?’ He asked the question not because Chotu had got it wrong but because he wanted to see how Mohan would carry himself and his evidence. Apparently the younger generation in Munger was a self-assured lot. Mohan told his story well, without suspicious embellishments or embroidery, while Bikram drew a Chinese lantern adorning a pagoda on his notepad.
‘What was the man like?’
‘Thin moustache and ears sticking out, like the hero Rajkumar’s, sir. Large bloodshot eyes, like Shatrughan Sinha’s. Hairstyle like that of Dharmendra.’
Bikram was intrigued.
‘Shatrughan Sinha and Dharmendra are movie heroes I grew up watching! Where did you get to watch these seventies’ movies?’
‘In my village in Munger we watch everything,’ said Mohan proudly.
Bikram rang the bell for his orderly. ‘My assistant will take down your statement and you can sign it. I suppose you can write.’
‘Class seven pass, sir!’ said Mohan brightly.
‘Wonderful,’ said Bikram. ‘Very sharp and quick of you to remember the picture and connect it with a customer.’ He felt around in his pockets and brought out a hundred-rupee note. ‘Buy something nice for yourself.’
Mohan hesitated and looked at Chotu beseechingly.
All right, take it,’ said Chotu. ‘He wants to be a police constable,’ he explained to Bikram. ‘The daroga at Broad Street said that they might be recruiting again this year. If you could . . .’
‘I’ll pray,’ said Bikram hastily. ‘Now if you two could go to the stenographer’s room . . .’
The shadows had lengthened by the time Chotu left. It was almost evening and still no summons came from Prem Gupta. For the first time in a long while Bikram began to feel apprehensive. Why was he not being called in for a meeting? Was Prem Gupta angry with him? Was Virendra Singh on better terms with the inspector general than Toofan Kumar had been and had he successfully run Bikram down, so well, in fact, that Prem Gupta was annoyed? Should he drop in for a chat? Bikram hesitated, picked up the telephone, pressed a button, frowned, disconnected the line and dropped back gloomily in his cha
ir.
Perhaps tomorrow would be another day!
* * *
Late at night the dhaba owner from Murshidabad made a frightened phone call.
‘Help me, saab. The local police are driving me mad. Some fat woman fell into a pond at the back of my dhaba and the thana thinks I am to blame. Two assistant sub-inspectors keep giving me dark hints about how they can finish me off for life. You know me, I don’t do girls and that sort of thing.’
‘What was she doing near a pond?’ Bikram was toggling between television channels and trying to see if they had anything worthwhile to say.
‘Must have gone to the toilet and then tried to wash up or something. There’s no water in the loo, it’s just a hole in the ground. The body looks like that of a city woman, lipstick and red hair and all. You never know with them.’
Lipstick and red hair . . . Bikram’s breath came quickly. Could it be . . . ? Policing was 20 per cent hard work and 80 per cent luck. No self-respecting policeman would ever admit that, but there it was.
‘Calm down. I’ll speak to the PS. When was this?’
‘I don’t know, saab. The nephew whom you helped at the constable recruitment was on duty at the counter. I had been at home all day. At seven-thirty in the evening someone found a body near the weeds and shouted for help. There’s been no peace since then.’
Bikram called a counterpart in Murshidabad. ‘Can you go over to the dhaba and tell me how she looks? This may be important.’
‘I can take a photograph and send it over email. The BSNL data connection works well here.’
‘Amazing. A primitive toilet without water and yet a fully functional Internet service!’
‘In the Sunderbans where I was posted before, there were excellent signals from the mobile-phone towers at every bend but no electricity to charge the phones! That’s India for you.’
An hour and ten minutes later Bikram was looking at an image of Monica Sarkar, or at least what remained of her, on his BlackBerry. The face was bloated and blue but unmistakably hers. She had been found dead at seven, but judging from the bloat, she could have been dead many hours earlier. The biggest hurdle now was to disentangle her from the knotty bureaucratic processes of who would conduct the autopsy and where. An unnatural death case had been registered at the Murshidabad police station, but the Sadar Hospital was reluctant to take on an important post-mortem which required more skill than they could ever manage, and the Medical College at Calcutta was even more unwilling to add one more dead body to a long line of unfinished corpse jobs. It was past midnight when the tangle was sorted out somewhat and a hearse despatched from Calcutta to convey Monica Sarkar from Murshidabad to the Medical College.