The Dead Don't Confess

by Monabi Mitra

  Bikram hastily disconnected the call. Sometimes one was so intent on the big picture that one didn’t know the details which others assumed were common knowledge, he thought.

  Another dog doodle later, he scribbled some words on the notepad. He wrote:

  What did Gaur Mohan mean by his message to Shona? What was the point of Keshav’s visit?

  Who gains most by Piloo Adhikary’s death?

  Bikram paused and bit his pen. His mobile phone gave a text message beep. There was a message from Sheena. ‘Fd sum more info abt Brd St case. Pl infm wen I cn cal. D info snds imp so mk time 2 hear.’ He had to read it through twice, like the ciphers of the Mental Ability paper he had suffered during training, when the telephone rang. He did not pick it up. It rang for what seemed like an eternity, then stopped, and began its insistent ring again. With a click of annoyance Bikram picked it up.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘You’re always so angry nowadays. What’s biting you?’

  It was the reporter.

  ‘Old age,’ said Bikram in a hard voice.

  ‘Nah! We sell more copies when we publish your picture. A handsome cop can be the biggest turn-on, you know! The girls love it and it’s not just the girls but their mothers and aunts as well. Can we do a short piece on you for the New Year’s Eve edition? With a photograph, of course, in uniform, talking into a phone. In the old days we could have put a cigarette in your mouth. However, your limpid grey eyes can complete the effect.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘I’m sitting on a mess of unsolved cases and you want to set me up as a toy boy!’

  ‘Oh, I forgot. Talking of unsolved cases, did you know that your Murari Koyal has resurfaced. He’s no longer a Koyal, though, but an Ali. Amir Ali, living near Amir Ali Avenue in Park Circus. Highly unimaginative.’

  Bikram sat very still.

  ‘Are you still there?’ The reporter sounded smug. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know this.’

  ‘Rono,’ Bikram cleared his throat.

  ‘Ah! Someone’s been aroused, at last! With enough ardour to address me by my nickname, after years. So can we do a piece on you or not?’

  ‘Rono, don’t tease me. You can’t imagine how much this case means to me now. You have to tell me where you got this information from. It is true, I didn’t know. I must round him up at once. Someone called Amir Ali withdrew a large amount of money from Monica Sarkar’s hidden bank account on the day following her murder. This means that Ali alias Koyal killed her.’

  ‘Hah! You’ll never get within sniffing distance. He’s Toofan Kumar’s informer.’

  For once Bikram was at a complete loss. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. But a number of things flashed through his mind and swirled into place. Monica’s mentioning Murari Koyal to Ashu Das—so unlike her—was not an inadvertent blurting out but a desperate attempt to have him unearthed. Anglo Roderick’s peculiar nervousness when he thought he was turning a troublesome comrade in, and Koyal’s mysterious disappearance, with Virendra Singh’s sudden and clumsy attempts to steer Bikram off the case—it all made sense.

  ‘Do you have anything more to tell me?’ said Bikram with some passion.

  ‘I want you to give me counter-information. What’s happening?’

  Bikram spun the pen on his table absently and was surprised to find that it whirled beautifully for three seconds. He spun it for three seconds more and seemed to reach some kind of a decision.

  ‘It’s confidential but I don’t mind telling you,’ he said guardedly. ‘I was actually thinking of another angle to this case.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I take it you know that Dhiraj Kumar of the scrap iron case is Gaur Lal Mohan’s brother-in-law? Not as loaded as Gaur Mohan himself, but a valuable link in his crooked empire. And that the man who got murdered on Diwali, what’s his name, Piloo, worked for Gaur Mohan as well as Dhiraj Kumar. Chief henchman, in fact. I think things were getting quite bad between Gaur Mohan and Piloo. So bad, in fact, that if Piloo Adhikary had not died so fortuitously on Diwali night, Gaur Lal Mohan might actually have had to fear for his own life.’

  ‘Is all of this conjecture or do you have evidence?’

  ‘We begin with the conjectures first, and fit in the evidence. That was my first lesson in policing. Now that you’ve got the real story, tomorrow or the day after you can be the hero of your newspaper.’

  ‘So that’s why you were ready to part with the gossip.’ The reporter sounded sulky. ‘You know Gaur Mohan gives full-page ads to my paper. My editor will never allow it. A small paragraph on page 5 is the best I can manage.’

  ‘True enough,’ said Bikram evenly.

  ‘And by the same logic, Gaur Mohan greases enough important palms to prevent you from framing charges against him. If there are any charges, that is,’ said the reporter soberly.

  Wincing at the thought of the crumpled polythene bag with its untidy piles of cash, Bikram wondered what to say. As if reading his mind, Rono the reporter said slowly, ‘It’s an uphill task, Bikram. Beneath his sheen, his plush flat in that stylish mansion in a leafy neighbourhood, lies a ruthless man who rose from ruffian-like roots.’

  ‘He sent me an odd letter a short while ago.’ Bikram read it out. ‘This man is deliberately going out of his way to dare me to do something to him. Why?’

  ‘At the obvious level, he’s doing it so that the Dhiraj Kumar case goes the Piloo Adhikary way—into oblivion. But more than that, I guess, because you are a strange species of policeman—the kind he’s never met before. You’re honest, efficient, sensitive, successful, not part of the usual party set and yet with a beautiful actress as a girlfriend. Excellent crime work, excellent law and order duties. People either adore you or hate you. Complete enigma! Gaur Mohan can’t slot you and that’s why he’s teasing you. This is the way he chooses to do it.’

  ‘You seem to be an authority on rich people and their games,’ remarked Bikram drily. ‘I don’t enjoy being laughed at, which is precisely what this man is doing. I shall try to get him, nevertheless.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that. That’s why I’m telling you. No one can touch Gaur Mohan. On the other hand, if anyone can succeed, it’s Bikram Chatterjee. Good luck!’

  With a heavy heart Bikram dialled Sheena Sen’s number.

  * * *

  At seven o’clock in the evening, when Crime Branch was busy gathering files and putting them away before the after-office rush, which was also the best time at the headquarters for a spot of private conversation, Bikram went in to see Prem Gupta. Though he was sure the inspector general liked him and took his opinions seriously, he nevertheless knocked on the door with trepidation. They had met only once last month, when the Broad Street murder case had been officially shelved and Prem Gupta had received him a little coldly. Everything’s going all wrong, thought Bikram sadly. How am I ever going to convince him to allow me to prise out information about Gaur Mohan and take action against him? And what action anyway! Only the poor and the defenceless go to jail. And some unfortunate policemen, he thought, remembering some of his colleagues languishing in prison because they had shot at a gang of armed robbers and been accused of human-rights violations. Thinking of the battery of lawyers, bureaucrats and politicians who would rush to do service to Gaur Mohan and his ilk, Bikram shook his head and went in.

  Mercifully, Prem Gupta was alone.

  ‘Good evening, Bikram. You’re looking preoccupied. Is anything the matter?’

  ‘You are right, sir, as always. I have been given an audacious letter, a birthday invitation and a bribe by a man who, I suspect, had a hand in Piloo Adhikary’s death. I sent the bribe away but have brought you the letter. It puts me in the unenviable position of being up against a powerful antagonist whom I seem to have sufficiently intrigued, at least enough for him to want to play games with me. I want your advice.’

  Prem Gupta raised his eyebrows and listened to an extended version of Kes
hav’s visit; then stretched his hand out for the letter and read it carefully through. In the end he looked at Bikram pityingly and said, ‘I can understand how you feel. I feel that way too. But this man can never be booked. He is too big, too powerful, too well known. I myself have shared drinks with him at the club and been to his daughter’s wedding, which was something of an event. All the bureaucracy who mattered, as well as representatives from the entertainment world and the business world were there, alongside all kinds of socialites and politicians. It’s like tilting at the windmills, and I would not wish you to be a Don Quixote.’

  ‘But if I were to even try the man a little, call him in for questioning and keep him in overnight, it might mean something. We can never send such men to prison, it is true, but the ignominy of being hauled into police headquarters and being detained there is a little bit of a punishment. That much, at least, can be some kind of a disgrace.’

  Prem Gupta shook his head.

  ‘Toofan Kumar would not agree. No police officer would, unless there is some severe pressure from outside.’

  ‘Like the press? If I can scout around a bit and build up evidence that he may have had a hand in it and the newspapers get onto it, would not the DIG be forced to call him in? Besides, one of the names in this case disappears and appears under an alias—Amir Ali—and it turns out that he is Toofan Kumar’s informer. This man accessed Monica Sarkar’s hidden funds and withdrew a large amount of money from a secret account. Only an ATM card left behind in the dead woman’s bag by mistake prevented him from cleaning out the account. Do we need to protect an informer, however valuable he may be, if he is a potential murderer?’

  Prem Gupta picked up a pen and looked fixedly at it. ‘Calm down, Bikram. Every department has its own work code and you know about ours. Respect for one another’s informers must be maintained. I can’t do what you suggest until you bring in good hard evidence. The Amir Ali who withdrew money from the dead woman’s account may not be the same one who is Toofan’s informer. Amir Ali is a pretty common name. Besides, a paanwallah’s nephew’s sightings have to be backed up by other things as well,’ he finished firmly.

  ‘Sheena and I discussed it before I came to meet you, sir, and she too is worried. She thinks that handwriting samples from the cashed cheque would probably match if we could get Amir Ali to give his signature. She found out about Koyal being the DIG’s informer,’ said Bikram in a half-truth. He did not mention that a reporter had given him the news first and that Sheena’s briefing, over the phone, had only given Bikram information that he already had.

  ‘I think Sheena should discuss her reservations with me before venturing opinions,’ replied Prem Gupta icily.

  Both were disturbed by the heat of their argument. Bikram had turned scarlet and there was a tight pause. He tried for the last time.

  ‘But sir, this audacious letter and the money. And . . . other things he’s said to a friend of mine. He’s forcing me to get on with the investigation.’

  ‘He’s a vain man and finds glory in his carefully built empire, Bikram. Piloo Adhikary and all the others he may have got rid of without being arrested were insignificant wretches who meant nothing to him. I know powerful businessmen who practically run governments: it’s a sort of intoxication for them. Besides, it amuses Gaur Mohan to see you so upset. He’s heard of you and wants to see how you’ll react to his bit of fun. It is best to ignore such people and not heed their games.’

  Bikram got up and saluted. Prem Gupta noticed an obstinate expression on Bikram’s face and a hurt look in his eyes which, unaccountably, reminded him of his son’s mulish look when given unwanted advice by his father.

  He said softly, ‘You have a bright career and a glorious life ahead of you. Try not to spoil it through foolishness and ill temper.’

  Bikram looked at Prem Gupta and saw, beyond the tenderness, a firm refusal to get on with the case.

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said.

  19

  ‘For this task the policeman must know . . . how to seek out the causes of crime.’

  Ashu Das left for home at four in the morning and went straight to his bedroom, locked the door and fell asleep. He awoke at midday, gulped down two cups of tea and an aspirin, and left for office. Like Ghosh’s household, Ashu Das’s too was a noisy one. It was difficult to sleep any longer, what with the pressure cooker whistling, doors banging, televisions blaring and the sparrows on the window ledge jabbering and twittering every infernal moment. Besides, his sleep pattern was delicate, and having once been disturbed, took time to settle down. Thus, an all-night raid meant forty-eight hours of sleeplessness. Perhaps he could have a quiet snooze in his room at Crime Branch.

  On the way to the headquarters Ashu Das looked in at the Alipore police station. The men arrested last night were dozing in the lock-up, mouths slightly open, arms spread out, bodies tangled in heaps on the rough cement floor, a threadbare blanket flung over them. Ashu Das looked sullenly at them and felt vaguely resentful of their sleep. He decided to awaken them for a round of questioning. Bring them in, one at a time, he shouted to the officer-in-charge. The officer-in-charge, who in turn wanted Ashu Das out of his domain as soon as possible, selected the hefty-looking lout who had given the most trouble while being put into the lock-up and sent him to Ashu Das along with a cup of tea.

  ‘Name?’ Ashu Das was punctilious with routine.

  ‘Kamal.’

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  ‘No one, sir. Langra Khoka is my brother-in-law and I came to say hello. It’s all a mistake, I have nothing to do with the guns. Oh save me, sir!’

  Ashu Das looked at him with disgust.

  ‘Look at the way you squeak! You with your Gabbar Singh looks! How many slaps do you want before you talk?’

  ‘Believe me, sir, it was just a courtesy visit, I had no idea . . .’

  Ashu Das lifted a stout and weathered-looking cane and smacked it on the man’s buttocks. There was a squawk of pain and the man rubbed his behind.

  ‘Spare me! I had surgery a month ago, my stitches will break open. I’m innocent, sir, let me go.’

  ‘Not before I squash you to a pulp. Tell me, you swine, what deal were you working out with Khoka?’

  The man shook his head and the cane came down on him again, this time landing on his shoulder with a dull thud. Ashu Das felt his own hand sting under the reverse impact of the blow while the man crumbled to the ground and started to slobber.

  ‘Save me, help, I will die. Let me go!’

  Ashu Das lifted the cane once again and the man shrieked. ‘Let me be, I will give you information about another murder! Let me go!’

  The cane hung in mid-air and Ashu Das frowned.

  ‘What murder?’

  ‘Two months ago, on Broad Street, in a house with dogs.’

  Ashu Das could almost feel the wheel of fortune whirring and his number coming up. For the first time in a long while, he smiled.

  ‘You killed him?’ He waited with bated breath.

  The man on the ground struggled to sit up and, wheezing, shook his head. ‘No, but I know who did it.’

  Ashu Das put down the cane, took a long sip of tea and felt for his mobile phone. ‘You’d better come up here,’ Ashu Das said over the phone to Bikram. ‘And bring Mr Ghosh with you. He should see what a real interrogation is all about.’

  An hour later Ashu Das, Ghosh and the officer-in-charge of the Alipore police station were caught in a full-blown quarrel, with Bikram looking moodily on.

  ‘I solved the case,’ crowed Ashu Das, looking meaningfully at Ghosh. ‘This man called Kamal drove another man called Emru to Piloo Adhikary’s house, who went inside and killed him.’

  ‘Fool!’ said Ghosh angrily. ‘There is no Emru. Your sainted Kamal killed the man himself and is now trying to turn approver. At least, he must have held Piloo while Emru jammed in the syringe or vice versa. One man alone could not have done that.’

  ‘Now look here,’ said the Alipore PS of
ficer. ‘If it’s the Piloo Adhikary case then it must be turned over to Broad Street PS, where the damn thing was first registered. Leave my thana alone. We’ve done enough anyway in registering an Arms Act case.’

  All three looked at Bikram who looked crestfallen. ‘I suppose Emru is in Bangladesh or Bihar?’ he asked Kamal, who sat whimpering on the floor with a constable standing on either side and poking at him now and then with a stick.

  ‘Emru is here,’ said a ghostly voice from the door and the whole room jumped. It was the duty officer, voice cracked with pharyngitis, holding a dark young man with a thick crop of hair. Seeing him, Kamal let out an unearthly howl and tried to cover his face with his tied hands. ‘I didn’t want to say anything, Emru bhai. This policeman beat me so hard I cracked . . . couldn’t help it . . . oh save me! Save my mother and my wife and my son!’

  Emru shot him a murderous look.

  ‘Be quiet, you,’ said the constable on guard near Kamal and clipped him on the head.

  ‘Where did you get him from?’ asked Ghosh in an incredulous voice.

  ‘I didn’t, he walked in himself,’ said the duty officer. ‘Strolled up to my table and said he wanted to confess to murder. At first I took him for a madman and gave him two of my choicest but he insisted and started reeling off names, so I thought you had better take a look.’

  ‘What names?’ asked Bikram suddenly.

  The duty officer shrugged. ‘Some Monica . . . I didn’t get the rest. Here you, now say what you wanted to.’ Emru was pushed into the room. He stood in the centre, with the rest ranged around him in a circle.

  ‘I killed Piloo Adhikary,’ said Emru. ‘You can take down what I say and record my confession.’ He shot a quick look at Ghosh and addressed Ashu Das, studiously avoiding Bikram’s gaze. The officer-in-charge muttered something under his breath and looked bewildered. Emru waited for someone else to say or do something, but the room was quiet and no one stirred.

  The suppressed excitement in the room must have communicated itself to him because he began in a pleasant and clear voice, ‘Piloo and I had begun life as thieves. We got arrested separately and were thrown into jail, where we met and set up a team. We robbed insurance money and cash that went in transit to police camps as constables’ pay. Then we moved on to banks, which was a great success. We made quite a lot that way. In no time we had a crore each and decided to move on to other things. Piloo set up a crockery business as a front and dabbled in stuff like small-time smuggling. I lay low for a while and drifted away to Assam, where I could be hired to do miscellaneous jobs. We had agreed not to keep in touch as a precaution, in case we got linked to the bank hold-ups. After some time I heard he had got into the movie business. Also that he was turning into the neighbourhood philanthropist and using his house as a shelter for street dogs. Bugger him, I thought. He must be exporting dog meat or why this sudden interest in them. You see, Piloo could turn any situation to his advantage, he had a magic touch. Well, I tracked him down to where he lived, and went to see him once, but he seemed anxious to write off his past. He told me not to go back to him again.’