The Dead Don't Confess

by Monabi Mitra

  Bikram made a phone call to Ghosh before falling asleep.

  ‘We’ve found her!’

  He explained how.

  ‘What was she doing in Murshidabad?’

  ‘Don’t know. She had a black bag and was carrying a passport, voter’s ID and bank documents in the name of Anamika Sarkar, Station Road, Siliguri. Running away, no doubt.’

  ‘Why didn’t she take the Darjeeling Mail? That’s the fastest way to reach Siliguri. No one travels by road in Bengal, except truckers and policemen.’

  ‘And criminals. You can’t jump into a carriage for Siliguri at the drop of a hat, Ghosh. It takes three months to get reserved berths on a Darjeeling train and this is the festive season. She must have made up her mind very suddenly and taken a Calcutta- Siliguri Rocket bus service.’

  ‘Hmm. Anamika, the one with no name. Very clever. Very ironical too, to do her husband in and run for shelter, only to accidentally fall into a pond in a village. Not the suicidal type.’

  ‘Or be pushed in. Because she was no longer necessary and knew too much.’

  ‘And was killed by the same one or ones who murdered Piloo. That leaves the dog handler out. He’s in police custody.’

  ‘But leaves us exactly where we were at the start of this case. The dark unknown.’

  There was silence as both men thought about their impending miseries.

  ‘What will you do now?’ asked Ghosh finally.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Leena Mukherjee, the one who came to me after Piloo’s murder. She knows something important, I’ll swear on that.’

  ‘And what do I do?’

  ‘Take care of the post-mortem. We must know exactly how she died.’

  Bikram rang off before Ghosh began to groan out excuses and make requests for being put in charge of anything, anything at all except speeding up a post-mortem.

  15

  ‘The character of a community is but a reflection of the character of its residents . . .’

  Leena Mukherjee was escorted to Bikram’s room in Crime Branch at eight in the evening the following day by two lady officers from the Women’s Grievance Cell. Leena Mukherjee lived in Salt Lake and it fell upon the few lady constables from the Salt Lake East Police Station to do the job, but none could be spared, and the one who could was a hefty wrestler who was useful only in hauling out gropers from queues in front of Durga puja pandals and smacking them hard on the face. The Women’s Grievance Cell officers, on the other hand, had just completed a two-week course in soft skills and helpline management and were thought to be sophisticated enough to deal tactfully with a reluctant witness of a homicide case.

  For Leena Mukherjee was reluctant. Her husband had hurriedly opened the door and made a hasty exit when the two officers arrived, mumbling about work, and Leena Mukherjee had refused to go. Even Bikram’s name could not persuade her. She tossed her head and said she was unwell and that the police were harassing her. The younger of the two officers used up all her two-week soft-skills training and came up short. The older officer rose decisively, saying things like ‘arrest’ and ‘warrant’ and ‘custody’ in a loud meaningful voice, and how DSP Bikram was easier to deal with when peaceful than when stirred to a temper. Finally, after ten minutes of this, the younger officer lost her temper. ‘You stupid woman, why don’t you come along with us and get it over with. Imagine being interrogated by DIG Virendra Singh! At least the DSP’s human.’

  Leena Mukherjee had burst into tears and rushed into an inner room, from which she emerged a few minutes later clutching a handbag and smelling of cough syrup. In the car she swallowed some more of the medicine before finally pitching the empty bottle out of the window and nodding sullenly.

  ‘Really, aunty. At your age!’ The older officer had wrinkled her nose and turned sourly away.

  Bikram hesitated as she entered and then nodded unobtrusively to the officers to leave. It was a risk, but he grimly took it. It was not regulation, but it might be easier to break her down if they were alone.

  Leena Mukherjee was clearly high. Her eyes bulged and her hands shook. She was wearing her mobile phone like a necklace in the jute carrier he had seen earlier, and an extremely tight, horribly beaded, cheap, salwar kameez.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to cooperate, Madam.’

  ‘Get on with it, will you? This isn’t the Coffee House that I’m here to exchange pleasantries.’ Her voice was high-pitched.

  ‘You’re right.’ Bikram took out a large glossy A4-sized photograph of Monica Sarkar’s dead body and handed it to her. ‘We found her yesterday at a dhaba. Drowned in a pond, no one knows how long. Some more here.’ Four close-up shots of Monica Sarkar fluttered down, all as unprepossessing as the other. Leena Mukherjee’s fingers tightened around her bag but she said nothing.

  ‘You’re not surprised?’

  ‘No.’

  Bikram stared back in surprise. He had not expected such heroic calm from this woman.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She had it coming.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Horrid creature. Shrewd, greedy.’

  ‘Why greedy?’

  ‘She stuck to him for money. Then she hunted around for others. Like my husband.’

  ‘Is your husband very rich?’

  Leena Mukherjee opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it and instead gave out a short, hard, false laugh. After a moment she said, ‘Bitch. Dead bitch.’

  ‘Do you have an alibi for the time when she may have died?’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Without the post-mortem report I can’t say, but generally speaking, the last forty-eight hours, ever since she disappeared.’

  ‘I’ve been at home.’

  ‘All the time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s unnatural. No shopping or paying bills or anything?’

  ‘No.’

  The interview was getting nowhere. Bikram sighed and wondered what to do. He gazed drearily at the clock on the wall, the files on the corner table and his cap on the table. He was wearing a newly tailored uniform and the collar band was ill-made and constricting. The room was stifling with a funny smell that had wafted in at Leena Mukherjee’s entrance and he rose to open the window. Outside, three constables were arguing over duty rosters and someone was listening to a bhangra rock song in a car. Bikram returned to his seat and gazed mournfully at Leena Mukherjee. Her mouth was slightly open and spittle had formed at the corners of her lips. She sat hunched and sunken.

  ‘Have you realized that your life is also in danger? If you know something, tell me. Now. Third time luck changes, and this is the third time we’re meeting. Nothing can be worse than dithering over some terrible secret.’

  Leena Mukherjee stared stupidly ahead. Silence, except for car horns, bhangra rock and the dim wail of an ambulance in the distance. Bikram looked at the clock: 8.30 p.m.

  He reached for the bell to call the peon to show the woman out and suddenly, without warning, she clumsily leaned across the table and laid a frowzy hand on his. Her head was lolling drunkenly. Bikram calmly disentangled his hand from hers and rose quickly. He opened the door, gesticulated to the Women’s Grievance Cell officers and, as they slipped into the room, closed the door and poured water into a glass.

  ‘Madam! Madam! Drink this, you’ll feel better.’ Officer one was trying to rouse Leena Mukherjee who had slumped across the table.

  Leena Mukherjee raised her head and said to no one in particular, ‘His son bothered him a lot.’

  Bikram, watching her intently, said nothing.

  ‘He blackmailed him.’

  ‘Who blackmailed whom?’ Bikram’s voice was even.

  ‘Piloo’s son.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He told me. The boy was thirty and a complete wastrel. Begged for money and a job. Piloo gave him some money but no job. Told him to get lost.’ Leena Mukherjee frowned and looked around her. A thin stream of saliva was running down the
corner of her mouth again and she slurped it back.

  ‘Does anyone else know this?’

  ‘No. He told me once when we were both drunk. He could be very talkative when drunk. He was a good friend. I miss him.’ Leena Mukherjee’s hands began to tremble. Her eyes were red- rimmed, her hair tousled and she looked quite done for.

  ‘You’re not well. Perhaps you had better go home.’ Bikram sounded concerned.

  Leena Mukherjee rose unsteadily and swayed a little. The policewomen caught her from both sides and began to pull her along. If she collapsed in the DSP’s office there would be a terrible to-do and it seemed like hours before she reached the door, with Bikram watching anxiously.

  ‘You don’t know where he is, I suppose,’ he hazarded when she was almost out of his room.

  ‘’Course. He must have murdered her.’ Her speech was still slurred and the policewomen looked disapprovingly at Bikram.

  Bikram followed the trio to the lift, expressionless.

  Inside the lift, as the doors clanged shut, she gave the name. She was smiling crookedly as she said it.

  * * *

  Ghosh rang him up as Bikram walked slowly down the corridor from the lift to his room, frowning over the unexpected piece of information just given him. Ghosh sounded delighted with himself.

  ‘Managed to get it done. Final report might take days, of course, but she had a colourful end. Coshed on the nape of the neck and then tipped into the water. Stomach clean, hands clean, no mud, sand or weeds in lungs or hands, so clearly not a case of ante-mortem drowning. Injury at the back of head very clear and definite. Isn’t it just great?’

  ‘Of course. Twenty-four hours is neat work.’ Bikram sounded gloomy.

  ‘Twenty-four! I got it processed in ten hours. I should get a police medal for organizing the fastest autopsy in Indian Police history.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Bikram. ‘Monica disappeared day before yesterday. Her dead body turns up in a pond at the back of a dhaba yesterday at seven. A dead body in water floats up about twenty-four hours later, which means she must have been killed around six or seven in the evening of the day she disappeared. En route to Siliguri, at the dhaba. We’ll have to find good evidence of how she travelled.’

  ‘As you had correctly surmised, the Rocket bus. We found a ticket in her handbag.’ Ghosh sounded livelier by the minute.

  ‘Where was it found?’

  ‘Near the toilet.’

  ‘No money, I suppose.’ Bikram sounded bitter. ‘Must have been stolen by all our simple, innocent, trustworthy villagers.’

  ‘Probably. And whoever coshed her was in a hurry to take off. Left her handbag behind.’

  ‘And the other black bag, the one the maid found missing?’

  ‘In a bush near the loo. They’ve looked through the bag and found something of interest—an ATM debit card in the name of Anamika Sarkar from a Kolkata Bank account. We’ll have to trace the account.’

  ‘Which is why the bag was not on the Rocket bus, which would be the natural place to find it.’ Bikram had reached his room and stood in front of the open window as he continued to talk. In his mind he was two hundred kilometres away, trying to remember the dhaba toilet.

  ‘Yes. She dragged it around with her. Considering that it contained all she possessed, it’s natural that she wouldn’t want to leave it on a bus to be pinched. Though I feel that it contained other bank papers also. Someone went through the bag in a hurry and took whatever he or she could find. The ATM card was inadvertently overlooked.’

  ‘Hmm. Now here’s some news for you.’ Bikram outlined Leena Mukherjee’s visit and what she said.

  ‘Brilliant. What more can we want? She’s named the person who has the best possible motive for bumping off Monica. Start the chargesheet.’ Ghosh laughed a wheezy laugh and began immediately to cough.

  ‘You haven’t been dining with the DIG, have you? You sound exactly like him,’ Bikram said reproachfully.

  ‘I’m a realist. When I see good, meaty evidence that can stand well in court, I use it. Break down the suspect, establish a lack of alibi for the evening Monica died and, if possible, for Diwali night as well, and the case is solved.’

  ‘And I’m a perfectionist, Ghosh. I still think there’s more to all this. It can’t be so simple.’

  ‘The best crimes usually are,’ said Ghosh ponderously.

  * * *

  Mala and Heera lived in a dirty flat within a shabby residential complex on the outskirts of the city. Bikram descended upon the flat at nine in the evening, knowing that second-rate actresses and third-rate directors would booze themselves silly as the night wound on. There was much bell ringing and knocking on the door by Debu, his security guard, before someone opened it. A dishevelled-looking girl of about thirteen stood swinging a tiffin-carrier.

  ‘Where are they?’ said Bikram without preamble. ‘Tell them I’ve come from Crime Branch and that my name is Bikram Chatterjee. Go.’

  The girl clutched the tiffin-carrier and began another round of knocking and banging on another door which led off from the living room on the right. ‘Dada! Dada! There’s a policeman called Bikram who wants to talk to you. Dada!’

  Bikram looked around the room as the girl went on calling and knocking. A tattered red velvet sofa, a dirty centre-table piled high with girlie magazines, three giant teddy bears on a wooden rack and two mugs with ‘Pattaya’ and ‘Phuket’ printed in bold blue. The room looked more like the waiting room of a massage parlour than a home.

  After four minutes of ineffectual knocking, Bikram hammered his fist on the door, shouting, ‘Heera. Come on out. I want to talk to you. This is important.’

  The door opened suddenly and Heera, wearing a pair of Bermudas and an orange vest came out and addressed the girl as if Bikram did not exist.

  ‘Who told you to open the front door, eh? Wait till Didi returns. She’ll give you one.’

  Bikram turned around and sat down serenely on the velvet sofa. Heera produced a cigarette and a matchbox from his pocket and proceeded to light up. The girl stared from one to the other, as if waiting for the fireworks and fistfights that were inevitable when there were police in the parlour. Heera nonchalantly puffed out some smoke and said, ‘Get on with your work.’ The girl left and the front door banged so hard that the Thai mugs rattled on the shelf.

  Heera flung himself down on the sofa and stuck out his legs. Since there was no place to sit in the room save for a mattress pushed up against a corner wall and covered with a dark and dirty bedsheet, Bikram realized he would have to conduct his interview by tilting round awkwardly on the sofa and trying to keep his feet from knocking against Heera’s.

  ‘Nice boots,’ said Heera and moved his right foot a little closer to Bikram. ‘Nice face, nice uniform, nice job. Honoured that an asshole like me should have a wonder like you in my dirty room. Of course, the slut’s gone out for an evening job. I’m all yours.’

  ‘What were you doing yesterday and the day before?’

  ‘Shooting at a farmhouse. Didn’t the inspector tell you?’

  ‘That was three days ago. How much time does it take to shoot two dance sequences? You have to pay a certain amount of rent for the farmhouse, I imagine.’

  Heera finished his cigarette, lit another one and said, ‘OK, so we came back the day before yesterday. What of it?’

  ‘We found a dead body near a dhaba in Murshidabad of someone who might be known to you. She was hit with something heavy on the neck and then pushed into the water. She was missing for the last day and a half. Your movements might interest us.’

  Bikram produced his photo album again. Heera bent over the snaps with ghoulish interest. Bikram noted that his hair was thinning, that one of his earrings was a little askew and the cheeks were mottled red. Again, like Leena Mukherjee, there was no surprise or shock. Heera inspected the photographs and handed them back laconically before resuming smoking.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what? I was on
the road back from Barrackpore with a truckload of technicians. About fifteen valuable witnesses are there to vouch for me. I couldn’t be held responsible.’

  ‘She was carrying papers that said she was Anamika Sarkar from Station Road, Siliguri. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘Typical of her. She must have hidden a lot of money in a fake account in Siliguri. Waited for the hue and cry to die down before deciding to disappear. Though someone got in before she did. I wonder,’ continued Heera thoughtfully, ‘how the murderer will access her money now. He or she must know where it is and how to get hold of it. Very pleasant for him, I must say.’

  ‘You’re a very strong suspect, Heera. That alibi had better be good.’

  ‘Oh! Why?’ Heera began to brush cigarette ash off his vest in a leisurely manner.

  ‘You are Piloo Adhikary’s son from his first marriage.’ Bikram was watching Heera closely, which was easy enough since the sofa had sagged and they were practically in each other’s laps.

  The leisurely ash-brushing continued, even though there was no more ash to dust off.

  Bikram waited. It was a risk, as he had no real proof except the testimony of a middle-aged woman indulging in substance abuse—two halting words uttered in a dim state of cough syrup-induced befuddlement. If Heera understood the lethal import of the question, he would never admit anything.

  ‘Where did you get this piece of information from?’ Heera had finished brushing off the imaginary ash and turned round to look at Bikram. He didn’t sound troubled by the statement. Bikram met Heera’s eyes and shrugged his shoulders.