The Dead Don't Confess

by Monabi Mitra

  Bikram nodded, a little surprised that Virendra Singh was being so perceptive.

  ‘So we’ll wait for the trawler and this man, Murari, to return and we’ll take it from there. Till then you and the others can go on pecking around for more information. Once Bishu’s custody lapses, we let him go. You can update the file and then take it easy for a while. Working too hard, I can see that. Go somewhere and have a quiet drink and a little bit of fun and refresh yourself. Not to worry.’

  Bikram stared, dumbfounded. He had been prepared for a round of endless arguments and explanations with the DIG and the IG. Virendra Singh got up and stretched luxuriously, waving him away. Bikram clicked a salute and left, his mind in a whirl.

  It was in the car that comprehension dawned. Toofan Kumar was due to return from leave, and Virendra was to hand over charge and return to police modernization. There was thus a perceptible slackening of effort on the latter’s part. The case was to be put in cold storage and left to itself.

  Another thought, simultaneously, wormed its way in. The case was spinning into unknown orbits and it was better to leave it alone. Perhaps Virendra Singh had received instructions from Australia.

  Some hours later Bikram rang up Shona.

  ‘Are you in love with my voice? I’ve never had you ring up so often in a week.’ She sounded amused.

  ‘Look, Shona, this is important. Are you in a triple shift or something or can you spare me a few minutes?’

  Shona sensed Bikram was in a sombre mood.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Don’t get mixed up with Gaur Mohan or anyone else you think might be his friend. Don’t take any calls from them, or accept any invitations to their parties. Lie low for a while. Let me know if you’re going anywhere outside the city, even if it’s for a day’s work. And tell Dolly to be careful also. Can you manage all that?’

  There was a pause before Shona came back.

  ‘Yes, yes, I think I can. But Bikram, you . . . I mean, it’s not that bad, is it?’

  ‘We’ve got two corpses on our hands, darling. I don’t want you to complete the set.’

  17

  ‘The standard maintained for policemen, however, is not always so high. Much too frequently, men are found on police forces who are lacking in intelligence, in moral strength, and in consideration for their fellows.’

  A month and a week had passed by and winter had come to Calcutta. There were peas and cauliflowers in the , markets and dahlias in the gardens. The nights were longer, cooler and dewy. Shawls had been shaken out and scarves resurrected. There was a perceptible increase in the number of weddings and parties and the Calcutta School of Music had begun its winter concerts. Billboards and newspapers announced ‘Old Stock 50% Discount’ and ‘Fresh Arrival of Winter Collection’ at shopping malls. Mrs Ghosh began to long for a new cashmere stole and cast covetous looks at these advertisements.

  Crime Branch had officially lost interest in the Piloo Adhikary murder case. There was lawlessness everywhere and officers could not be tied to one case alone. A shop selling silver and gold ornaments had been burgled and a man in debt had struck his wife and child down with a hammer before drowning himself. A trader dealing in scrap iron had made his payments but received no scrap. The two main political parties in the state were gearing up for elections that were six months away and had accused each other of kidnapping and murder. Ghosh, Sheena Sen and Bikram were busy sorting out all this and more. The pink files dealing with Piloo and Monica and Murari Koyal lay face down in Crime Branch bureaus and other files weighted them down.

  Murari Koyal had vanished for good. The trawler came back after fifteen days but Frasergunge police station claimed Murari Koyal was not on it. Ghosh and Bikram both knew this was what Frasergunge thana would say anyway, so the news did not surprise them. Whoever had tipped them off, Anglo Roderick or the local thana or villagers, had been well paid. Ghosh had reconciled himself to the case remaining unsolved. He wondered whether Bikram was still his old self, moodily lingering over a failed investigation, but realized with a sigh of relief that even Bikram had moved on. He’s growing old, thought Ghosh with a pang. Shona Chowdhury went off to Dubai for a movie shoot and Asha Ghosh showed some signs of life by resuming her Carnatic music lessons.

  Toofan Kumar returned from Australia and jumped headlong into Crime Branch business. Meetings were set up, inspections were undertaken. The jewellery robbery case was solved and the tea boy, who had tipped off the thieves, was arrested. Toofan Kumar switched from one television channel to another, gazing adoringly at his own press conference and himself in it, as he pretended to look at the camera in a bored way while outlining in broken Bengali how the crime was solved. If only it could have been beamed on national news—Bade Chacha in Patna could have seen him as the high-flying police officer! Toofan Kumar poured himself another drink and reached for the remote.

  Ashu Das was collecting subscriptions for the Police Wives’ Annual Christmas Ball when the call came.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Haven’t heard from you in a century. What have you got?’

  ‘A hot tip. Langra Khoka’s in town to reset his team. You can pick him up if you want.’

  ‘How? Those cheating and thieving cases are too trite to hold in court and he’ll be out in no time.’

  ‘That’s where I come in. I can plant four revolvers with four bullets on the team and you can frame them under the Arms Act. I’ll be handing him a consignment of my stuff at his hideout near the zoo today and I’ll leave the revolvers there.’

  Ashu Das considered. A haul of arms, even if it comprised no more than two ornamental country-made manufactured-in- Bihar revolvers which usually jammed when shooting, would look good. All that he had on his hands now was an investigation into the disappearance of a seventy-year-old woman. He could never impress Toofan Kumar with that.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but make it look good. How about a bundle of fake currency and a packet of heroin also?’

  ‘No,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘Just the revolvers.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll make the raid around three in the morning.’

  ‘And I’ll call you when I’ve finished my end of it.’

  At two in the morning Ashu Das went to the Alipore police station and surveyed his team. One sub-inspector, pot-bellied and ill-kept, who was yawning his head off, four witless constables who were wishing they could do the same, and his own fat self. Ashu Das suddenly felt his job to be stifling. He sat despondently at a table strewn with files and felt his life wilting away, an unclean muddle of unsolved cases, crooked interventions and utter mismanagement. A few dubious deals here and there had fetched him some amount of illegal money but that was laughable by present-day corruption standards in India. Ashu Das woke the sub-inspector up and climbed into the Tata Sumo with a heavy heart.

  Langra Khoka had chosen his hideout well. It had once purported to be a tourist lodge but was now a ruined building by the stinking Tolly Nullah. Squatters had taken over the grass patch in front and heroin addicts had ensconced themselves in the two storeys behind it. Ashu Das looked around for stray dogs, the bane of night-time raids, barking out warnings to those about to be raided. Fortunately the mongrel who received them was a starved puppy with a poisoned paw who looked at them coldly and went back to sleep. Leaving a constable to deal with any squatter who awakened, Ashu Das took the rest of his force round to the house.

  Deserted ground floor. Peepal roots were sprouting from broken window ledges and large rats skittered across the floor. Near the edge of the staircase they found a dirty little toilet, set in the crook of the stairs, emitting a fearful stink and picturesquely filled with groups of cockroaches nestling in spider-web formation. Ashu Das, who was faintly asthmatic, closed the door quickly. They climbed a crumbling staircase and made their way quietly along the veranda, having split up into two groups that went east and west. Ashu Das, who went west, found traces of the living in the form of three camp beds,
two empty rum bottles and one plastic mug beside a towel, but no life. A shout from the east veranda, however, told him that their quarry was there. Ashu Das stumbled across the broken floor, panting, and reached the rooms on the right. Three men sat up sleepily, rubbing their eyes and staring at the policemen. Two were thin, wasted creatures whose ribs poked out from their patched vests. The third was an enormous man with froglike eyes who had already started blubbering in fear. None bore resemblance to Khoka.

  ‘Where’s Khoka?’

  The fat man pointed to the rooms Ashu Das had just come from.

  ‘He slept there.’

  ‘Get up, you scoundrels. Where have you hidden him?’

  The three men stared at one another in fear and amazement. ‘He’s n-n-not there?’ Thin man number one looked apprehensive.

  ‘He’s skipped out on you, you idiots. Tell us where he’s gone.’

  ‘He wouldn’t, we were all supposed to be meeting others tomorrow . . .’ Thin man number two had the disbelieving expression of the fool who has just realized he has been cheated.

  The fat man was already falling at the constables’ feet and protesting his innocence. Leaving a constable to deal with them, Ashu Das motioned to the sub-inspector and another constable to follow and set out to look for the planted revolvers, his mind in a whirl. Had his informer tricked him or had Langra Khoka been tipped off by someone from the thana and escaped, leaving the weak ones behind? Most likely the latter. Or perhaps Langra Khoka had seen their car and run away. Ashu Das felt too tired to attempt a follow-up inspection. The thing was to get his hands on the revolvers and foist the guilt on the men left behind.

  Ashu Das climbed up the stairs and onto the terrace. Near a pile of bricks sat a broken water tank, and near the tank was a rusted pipe. Ashu Das shone his torch at the base of the pipe. Its light fell on a neat little plastic packet tied up with a string. The shapes and bulges of the packet were familiar to him. He opened the packet and lovingly cradled the ancient-looking revolvers inside. They were rusty and heavy, but what the hell, they had a barrel and a bore and contained bullets. Now there were three louts with probable police records in his car and two pairs of firearms in his hands. Langra Khoka would have been an added bonus, but one must be satisfied!

  Ashu Das made his way back down the stairs, out onto the patchy garden and into his car. The squatters had awakened and were excitedly calling out to his men and pointing here and there. They had seen a man leap down the stairs and cross the road and go up it, no, down it, and round the zoo to the canal’s edge. Ashu Das looked at his watch and saw it was five minutes to four. A quick clean round-up and a case that could be formally described as having been successfully solved. He directed the driver to the police station and wondered if the tea boy could be woken up to make him a quick cup.

  18

  ‘Powerful vice leaders will take the trouble to corrupt individual members of the force, from the police chief to the lowliest recruit.’

  Bikram received a letter. It was encased in an expensive-looking envelope and was typed out on a thick cream-coloured sheet.

  Esteemed Sir, began the letter.

  Trust you’ll agree—to ‘make’ good, one has to ‘be’ good; to ‘be’ good one has to ‘meet’ good. And that’s why when I saw you that day at the cricket match I felt I was truly privileged. Just as we can’t visit a perfume shop without some of the fragrance rubbing off on us, we can’t meet achievers without picking up some vital lessons. It happened with me that day. You are great, stay great.

  Gaur Lal Mohan

  Much later, Bikram would think back on this moment and realize that it had somehow been a defining one. Till then the Piloo Adhikary case had been one of many, something to be investigated with thoroughness and precision, as much as one could expect in Crime Branch. A man had died an unexpected death and two of his dogs had been gruesomely killed. It had been given up as yet another unsolved mystery because that was the way real-life policing often went. A neatly solved homicide was usually confined to the realm of crime fiction. But Gaur Mohan’s vulgar letter was like a giant smirk, a throwing down of the gauntlet, and Bikram felt his face grow hot and red with anger.

  He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers over his eyes. A thought that had occurred to him once but had been pushed to the back of his mind as the case had progressed bobbed up again. It fitted in, he thought slowly, but why? He let his mind flit over the shadowy figures. Should he take up the challenge? Unbidden to his mind there came a vision of Shona on a sofa with a heavy brutish figure beside her, leering and sneering.

  The door opened and the peon came in.

  ‘The person who has brought this letter is waiting to see you, sir.’

  Bikram took his hands off his face and stared at the peon.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Bring him in.’

  The peon stepped out and returned with a thin man wearing a white shirt, white trousers and white sneakers, carrying a black polythene packet. The man began bowing from the door and advanced towards Bikram with his right hand on his heart.

  ‘I’m Keshav.’

  Bikram gave him his iciest look.

  ‘May I sit down?’

  Bikram gave a half nod.

  Keshav sat down and smiled an oily smile. He had an ill-kept moustache and teeth stained with paan.

  ‘Christmas greetings, sir. From Gaur Mohanji to you.’

  He deposited a box wrapped in cellophane and tinsel, in which a few cashew nuts could be seen.

  ‘Gaur Mohanji wishes you a happy festive season and prays for your presence at his sister-in-law’s grandson’s first birthday party. To give your blessings to the newborn.’

  A card was thrust into Bikram’s hands which he put down on the table disinterestedly.

  ‘We do hope you can make the time to attend.’

  Bikram frowned.

  ‘He has a small request also, sir. You know this scrap iron case you were working on in November? Where someone has filed a case against Dhiraj Kumar saying he has not made such payments?’

  Bikram lifted his eyebrows.

  ‘If you could please disregard the case, sir, it would make both of you happy. The complainant is a liar and Dhiraj Kumar is an old associate of Gaur Mohanji’s.’

  For the first time in the meeting Bikram spoke. ‘Does Gaur Mohan actually think I will listen to him?’

  The slippery look had returned on Keshav’s face.

  ‘He hopes you will sir, for his sake. And yours.’

  Had it been a movie Bikram could have caught Keshav by the collar and thrown him out of the room, flinging the box of dry fruits behind him. But this was real life, and Bikram sat placidly on his chair.

  Keshav waited for something theatrical to happen, but nothing did. Bikram’s phone rang and he attended to it.

  Keshav suddenly rose and made for the door. With his hand on the doorknob he pointed to the seat he had just vacated and mouthed something, then opened the door and was gone.

  Bikram got up idly and looked at the chair. The packet was still on it. A cold feeling smote his heart and he knew then that he had been trapped.

  ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ he said into the receiver and snatched the box from the seat. It was lined with paper amongst which nestled bundles of thousand-rupee notes. He lunged for the door and called out to the peon. ‘Get that man who was in here a minute ago. Bring him in quick! He must still be on the stairs. He’s left something behind.’

  ‘I’ll get him!’ It was Debu, loitering outside the door. ‘He tried for the lift but the man directed him to the visitors’ staircase.’

  Curious faces from adjoining rooms peeped out and the corridor suddenly became full of people looking interestedly at Bikram, who walked back into his room and slumped down on his chair. He put his head in his hands and muttered to himself, ‘Will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.’ He sat like that for about four minutes. All at once there was an excited rat-tatting on the
door and Debu entered holding a dismayed- looking Keshav in a hard grip.

  ‘He was stuck because he couldn’t wedge his bike out of the car park, otherwise he would have gone.’

  Bikram sat on the edge of his table and motioned Debu out. Then he leaned forward and smiled his softest smile, ‘Do you know what’s in that box?’

  Keshav’s nostrils quivered. ‘Yes,’ he said feebly.

  ‘I refuse to believe that your employer is offering me money for staying off the Dhiraj Kumar complaint. He is too clever for that. Other, more complicated issues are at stake here, which even I cannot fully understand. But you must give your employer this message,’ said Bikram. ‘Tell him I will take up this afternoon’s incident as a challenge. It will be hard going and my resources are limited but I’m ready to play. On condition that he is not to do things of this sort. I have been offered more, much more than this in the past. He should have researched me better.’

  Bikram picked up the bag and closed Keshav’s fingers over it. Then he motioned to his desk lamp and smiled, pointing to a small button-like object that had been clipped on to the shade. ‘It’s all here, on the spy camera. I’m a careful man.’

  Keshav picked up the bag and left the room.

  After his departure Bikram sat for a while fiercely drawing dogs on his notepad. He rang up Sheena Sen after the third dog doodle.

  ‘Is Dhiraj Kumar of the scrap iron case close to anyone else in the business world?’

  ‘Close to? I don’t know about that. Unless you mean a relative. He’s the brother-in-law of some bigwig called Gaur Lal Mohan, an industrialist-cum-realtor-cum-finance man. He’s also—’

  ‘I’ve got another call coming, Sheena. I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for the info . . .’