by Monabi Mitra
‘What of it? You’re not suggesting that he bumped the man off and then disappeared!’
‘Why not? He disappeared with impunity, knowing he had another identity in Ten Miles Village that would be difficult to track down. And Monica Sarkar disappeared at the same time as he did. Perhaps the man Chotu’s cousin sighted at that restaurant was Koyal. We might be in luck, Ghosh! Koyal could have done in the woman and gone back to his hidden life in this sleepy little village near the sea. With Piloo Adhikary’s real assets—the ones we couldn’t get at. A movie producer has to have more than fifteen lakh rupees in his account and blameless income tax papers. Remember how he used to pull out money at will and stuff Leena Mukherjee’s purse? He must have had a fortune stashed away in cold cash somewhere which his wife and this man knew about.’
‘You mean we return to Calcutta having wrapped up two cases? It’s a good thought to think,’ said Ghosh sagely. ‘But why would Monica Sarkar mention Koyal’s name at all if she had been in league with him?’
‘Meaning that it’s too much to hope for,’ said Bikram. ‘To divert suspicion from her own self, of course. At that time she was the prime accused. Anyway, let us see.’
* * *
Raja was waiting for them by the road at a point where it dipped onto a bridge that spanned a narrow canal. He looked flushed and excited and hailed their car noisily before saluting Bikram and Ghosh ceremoniously. Beside him stood a broad-shouldered man with long red-streaked hair cut in layers. He was wearing a check shirt with the first few buttons undone, through which glistened a crucifix of shiny white metal. A long beard hung limply from his chin almost to his chest, completing the Chinaman-cum- Christ effect. Bikram could feel, rather than see, Ghosh hissing in disbelief and Ashu Das looking warily on.
In spite of his prophet-like appearance Anglo Roderick was clearly ill at ease. He looked cautiously over his shoulder and scanned the buses and jeeps that thundered past. In reply to Bikram’s greeting he gave a curt nod. Sensing his discomfiture Bikram invited him into the car and rolled up the tinted windows. Now the air inside the car was closed and they could all smell the smoky hashish that rose from the man’s shirt and hair. Anglo Roderick had been smoking joints to steady himself.
‘I don’t want to be seen with you all, it’ll jeopardize my whole career,’ Anglo Roderick spoke rapidly and his words came out in a singsong rush. ‘I’ve said all I know to Raja here. Murari Koyal is in his house in Ten Miles. Straight down the road from Ma Manasa Stores, past the primary health care unit. It’s a new double-storeyed pink house with a black iron gate and high walls all around. He lives there with his wife and ten-year-old son. He’s got a flat in Diamond Harbour also but right now he’s in this house.’
‘How long has he had a trawler?’
‘About five years now. He’s not from Ten Miles originally but kind of popped out of nowhere and settled down here for good. He’s very rich and his trawler is doing well.’
‘How do you know him?’ asked Ghosh.
‘I supplied the cement and bricks for this house he was building. I am into construction now and Murari Koyal sought me out.’ Anglo Roderick’s glance wavered over a motorcycle that had come to a halt a little way down the road. Two men wearing lungis and skull caps changed places and glanced curiously at the Bolero jeep with dark windows. Anglo Roderick looked petrified. ‘Are you sure they can’t see me here?’ He darted a quick look at Raja who had been fiddling with a pair of sunglasses in the rear seat. ‘Hey, I hope this isn’t a set-up, Raja? You wouldn’t dare!’
‘Look, Roderick . . .’ began Bikram patiently.
‘Anglo Roderick,’ interrupted Roderick truculently.
‘Anglo Roderick, sir,’ said Raja from the back. ‘Mind your manners.’
‘And you mind yours!’ Anglo Roderick glared back at him. ‘All I agreed to do was give some information, not to be trapped into a session with the Crime Branch in a police van!’
‘Here now. . .’ began Ashu Das angrily. Bikram silenced him with a quick shake of the head. ‘Where is his trawler docked and what is its name?’
‘Father’s Blessings,’ said Anglo Roderick shortly.
‘You mean that’s the name of his trawler?’ It was Ashu Das now. ‘Where is it kept?’
‘At the fishing harbour at Frasergunge. It was getting ready for another trip, at least that’s what he said two days ago. This is the coolest weather for a good catch. Loads of eels and pomfret and lovely prawns.’
‘Last question,’ said Bikram gently. ‘Do you know if this man had dealings in Calcutta under a pseudonym? With someone called Piloo Adhikary? Or with a company named Ganeshaa Investment?’
Anglo Roderick shook his head. ‘Raja was convinced this man had a firm in Calcutta but I don’t see how that is possible. He is well known here as an important figure in the fishing business. There must be another Murari Koyal. He went to Calcutta now and then, of course, but that was to meet wholesalers in the fish business. At least that’s what he said. I didn’t ask too many questions as long as I got my money on time. He was regular with his payments. It would always be five-hundred-rupee notes stacked in neat bundles. He was planning to build another house in Diamond Harbour and would have given me that contract as well. Which is why I don’t want to be caught ratting on him. So, are you done?’ he finished impatiently.
‘Yes,’ said Bikram. ‘You’ve been helpful. Thank you. Take my number and the numbers of Ghosh and Das babu here. If you remember anything else you can call one of us.’
But Anglo Roderick was out of the car in a flash and was now standing by Raja’s motorbike with a mutinous look. Raja took the piece of paper with the numbers scribbled on it hurriedly and cast his head down. ‘I am sorry, sir, for his behaviour. I thought he would do better but he seems to be exceedingly fearful. And the ganja seems to make him crabbier. Do you want me to get him drunk and work on him some more?’
‘No, Raja. You’d better take him home and run off. We’ll be taking a look at Murari Koyal’s house now so you shouldn’t be around.’
Raja saluted, seemed to remember something and suddenly dived for Bikram’s feet.
‘Bijoya blessings, sir. I haven’t seen you after Durga puja.’
From the motorbike came an exclamation of annoyance and a snarl. ‘If you don’t come back now, I’ll take off with your bike!’
Bikram pushed Raja out of the car. ‘Go now.’
With a last adoring look at him, Raja went.
Ten Miles Village looked on suspiciously as the grey jeep swayed across a rough, broken track. A few pairs of eyes within Ma Manasa Stores scrutinized the car and its occupants from under its thin reed thatch and columns of chips packets strung across the entrance like a curtain. A blackened squat bungalow with shuttered windows, peeling paint and ‘Primary Health Clinic’ written on it was left behind. They went past a pond filled with green hyacinths, its banks covered with thick thorny scrub, and encountered a forest of yam bushes with enormous fan-like leaves. All at once the road steadied and they could see a pink house with an ornamental gate in the distance, rising somewhat incongruously out of tangled vegetation. The car roared to a stop outside the gate. Debu and Lalbahadur jumped out of the back and ran to take their posts, one in front and the other sidling around to the back. Ashu Das peered through the gate and froze. Through a gap in the ornamental iron he could see two wolfish creatures sitting statue-like, chests tense, brown necks hunched, muzzles pointed, ears perked up. Then one barked and so did the other—a deep, throaty bark that echoed through the grounds. Ashu Das turned to Bikram trembling. ‘Alsatians,’ he announced shakily. ‘I’m not taking a chance with them.’
No one, it seemed, wanted to take a chance with the two mighty beasts. The trio stood irresolute while the dogs continued their act. Ghosh peered through the gate and met two pairs of suspicious brown eyes staring back at him. Then one of the dogs gathered itself for a jump and Ghosh fell back with a shout of terror. Only Bikram stared brightly ahead. ‘Dog
s here too,’ he said in a funny voice. ‘Did you get that, Ghosh, Ashu? This man also has experience in handling dogs.’
Ashu Das was stuttering in fear and Ghosh looked shaken too. ‘That’s all very well, but how are we to get in?’
‘Ring the bell,’ snapped Bikram, indicating a switch above the gate. Ghosh rang it and the two dogs on the other side threw themselves at the gate and scratched at it in fury, baying all the while. After ten seconds they heard a shooing sound from the house and footsteps walking unhurriedly towards the gate. Bikram pushed Ghosh out of the way and stood near the peephole. A wary human eye lifted the hatch and surveyed them for a long while before the group was told, ‘No one’s at home.’
‘Oh yes, there is! Open up! Police here.’
There was a fractional hesitation during which Ghosh recovered himself enough to rap sharply on the gate. A paroxysm of husky barks broke out on the other side and even Bikram retreated a little.
‘Wait till I tie them up,’ answered the voice. ‘Hero, Tom, come here.’
Bikram turned to Ghosh and Ashu Das and shook his head. ‘He’s had ample warning to hide himself. We’ll never get him now.’
And there was no one to get.
The grubby boy in a dragon T-shirt who finally opened the gate was right.
The house, all two floors of it, was empty.
Bikram, Ghosh and Ashu Das made a quick tour of the kitchen, pantry, dining room, two bedrooms, upper veranda, lower veranda and bathrooms in a despondent manner, knowing their quarry had got away.
The furniture was cheap, the curtains were expensive but tasteless, the artefacts monstrous, the bed linen was chosen recklessly from bazaar sales and the bathrooms were dirty. Cupboards had been opened and closed in a hurry and clothes lay strewn across chairs. A Batman toy lay abandoned in a corner and a child’s plastic revolver had skidded under the bed.
‘Where are his wife and child?’ asked Ashu Das to the servant.
‘No idea. They all left this morning, around eight.’
‘But you must have some knowledge of where they could have gone. Overheard bits of conversation? Did they have a car?’
‘Nothing. They may have taken a rickshaw to the railway station. I wouldn’t know. I came in around seven and made tea, then went out to do some shopping. When I came back they were all gone.’
‘How did you enter? Wasn’t the house locked?’
‘The front door has a Godrej lock but I have a spare key.’
Ghosh and Bikram had been looking through cupboards.
‘No framed pictures on the wall? Very spartan existence, sir.’
Bikram had been going through the contents of a plywood computer table with no computer. Instead the drawers were full of schoolbooks and comics. He glanced through a book with a brown-paper cover and a label stating that it belonged to Debashis Koyal, Class 5, Morning Dew High School, Diamond Harbour, West Bengal, and threw it over to Ghosh who tried to catch it but couldn’t. The book slipped open at a page describing the planets.
‘Find out where the school is and ask the teachers or headmaster how the child was and whether the father played an active part in his school life. I doubt if he did, though. Ah, here it is.’
Ghosh went over to Bikram who was holding a photograph in his hands. It had slipped out from an art-and-craft book. A man, a woman and a child stood in a harbour with boats in the background. The man could be anywhere between thirty-five and fifty years old. He was dark and wiry, with a thin moustache, stick-out ears, large gloomy eyes and an old- fashioned puff hairdo; and wore a striped shirt and a pair of tan trousers. Mohan’s description had been wonderfully accurate and Ghosh felt a faint cheer in thinking of a time in court when the prosecution would have at least one unbreakable witness. His wife was ordinary looking, with frizzy hair tied up in a knot and gold hoops in her ears. The child stood between the two, clutching his mother’s arm and staring suspiciously at the camera.
‘Murari Koyal and family,’ murmured Bikram. ‘Shapeless and insignificant-looking fellow, except for that stupid hairstyle. Doesn’t look as if he has the wits to handle fake investment companies and a profitable deep-sea trawler, which means he probably does, and successfully too.’
Ghosh took the picture from Bikram’s hands and looked at it closely, with his mouth pursed and his eyes screwed tight. He looked up at Bikram at the same time as the idea struck Bikram as well.
‘Father’s Blessings!’ said Ghosh in a choked voice. But Bikram was already bounding down the stairs.
‘Let’s take the servant!’ shouted Ghosh between shallow
breaths. ‘He’ll be able to guide us better.’
* * *
The Bolero jeep was as crowded as a jar of candy in a paanwallah’s shop. Debu and Lalbahadur wrestled with Kala, the servant, at the back while Ashu Das and Ghosh held on to their seats, white with fear. Bikram was at the wheel and Mistry was shading his eyes and praying. The car skipped crazily down the narrow road at a perilous pace and sent children, cows and peasants with bundles on their heads flying for cover. The road rose and fell and the Bolero zipped and hurtled its way through. Ashu Das thought of his wife and child back home and vowed never to get mixed up with Bikram again. Ghosh thought of Mrs Ghosh and Asha and felt that dying in a road accident would be a fitting end to his woes. Mistry could feel his bowels moving and wondered how long he could control himself. Bikram drove on in a black rage.
The road lengthened out and led to a check-post near a canal. The boy manning the gate tried to stop them and stepped away with a screech as the Bolero nearly ran him over. A squeal and a shriek of brakes! Ashu Das, Debu and Lalbahadur stared as the boy was dragged along by Bikram to the water’s edge. On the other side of the canal was a thick mangrove forest whose conical roots were now submerged in the tide. The canal was full of sturdy-looking fishing boats. The wharf was dotted with crates, mounds of fish and blue fishing nets. Ghosh’s boots squelched over the mud and exterminated two grey crabs that had been sunning themselves. Fishermen stopped unloading their catch and turned to stare at Bikram, who was shaking Kala by the scruff of his neck, as the grubby boy tearfully pointed at the water and shook his head. Ghosh stared at the water. The canal went on for a hundred metres and began to widen out as it reached the sea. Up above, a flock of gulls soared and swooped and soared again. Beyond the sharp smell of fish came the salty, cheesy smell of the Bay of Bengal. Ghosh knew what Kala was saying. Murari Koyal had organized the best getaway in Crime Branch history! Tipped off by God knows whom, he had packed himself and his family into his trawler and headed five hundred kilometres out to sea.
* * *
The air in the Bolero on its return journey to Calcutta was chilly. Outside, it was a pleasant November afternoon. Shafts of sunlight illuminated the Ganesha statue on the dashboard and fields of ripe yellow grain nodded and shimmered in the breeze. Inside, Ghosh and Ashu Das fidgeted uncomfortably on the passenger seat, and Debu and Lalbahadur sat like a couple of statues at the back. Bikram was sitting beside Mistry. His slender fingers held his mobile phone in a crushing grip and his grey eyes were without expression as they stared at the road ahead.
His phone rang. Some cop on the press payroll had leaked the news and a reporter with a bright young voice wanted to know whether the hunt for Piloo Adhikary’s killer in Frasergunge had been successful. Bikram said one single word and terminated the conversation, then switched off the phone. They covered the distance in near silence, broken only occasionally by Ashu Das and Ghosh whispering guiltily into their mobile phones when it rang. No one made a call himself.
A kilometre away from Crime Branch headquarters Bikram switched on his phone again.
Once inside the building he headed straight for Virendra Singh’s room.
Ghosh had been padding behind, while Ashu Das had melted like a bubble in the earth.
At the door Bikram gave a ghost of a smile to Ghosh. ‘Don’t worry. The drive has tempered the wrath. I’ll be all right.’
Feeling vaguely hopeful Ghosh walked away.
Virendra Singh was watching the evening news seated on a Lazyboy sofa bought out of modernization funds. Three minutes back he had been changing channels and had stumbled upon one playing Bengali music, where Shona walked sadly through Piccadilly Circus in a chiffon sari, her hair done in 1950s-style curls. She was looking melancholy, stylish and smouldering, and Virendra watched the number mesmerized, both by Piccadilly Circus, where he had shopped last summer, and by Shona, whom he secretly fantasized about. When the number ended he sighed and no sooner had he tuned in to the news than Shona’s boyfriend walked in.
‘Sit, please sit. Hard day for you, eh? I suppose you had plans for the evening?’ Virendra winked. ‘Lucky guy, you.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Are you going to the Parry Prakash do? All the dazzling stars will be there and you’ve got the most sparkling one in the firmament. Why don’t the two of you drop in for a bite one day?’
Bikram blinked. His mind was still full of hate and despair at Murari Koyal’s disappearance and he had been thinking up all kinds of careful phrases to break another spot of bad news to the DIG, and here he was discussing party schedules and dinner appointments. His gaze flitted momentarily to the television and flickered back. Shona must be on the air, answering quiz questions or giving beauty tips or engaging in some other nonsense and Virendra must have been watching her. Hence the softened let’s-be-friends approach.
‘Yes, of course, sir. I . . . I mean we’d love that. About this other raid here, the one at Ten Miles Village, I’ve just come back from it . . . I’m afraid it didn’t go off well. The man had a trawler and seems to have put himself away for a week or more.’ Bikram described the failed raid, his suspicions of Murari Koyal and finally, almost as an afterthought, his meeting with Heera the previous evening and what he had learned. Then he waited for Virendra to erupt, as Toofan Kumar usually did.
‘Lots of suspicions but no real evidence,’ said Virendra briskly. ‘All of them have water-tight alibis except Leena Mukherjee, and there we have motive in killing Monica, but no knowledge of means. And she has an erratic drinking problem, so it will be risky to try and break her down. Might collapse in the lock-up and where will we be then!’