3 and a Half Murders: An Inspector Saralkar Mystery

by Salil Desai

  “But what about Sanjay Doshi’s suicide note, sir?”

  Saralkar gave a smirk. “Come on, Motkar. Even if it turns out to be written by Sanjay, it could have been written under duress, if the murderer was threatening to kill him.”

  “No, sir, I don’t mean that. I mean the note specifically mentions Shaunak Sodhi,” Motkar said. “If Sodhi killed the couple, why would he put his own name in the note? Would it not lead to him?”

  Saralkar’s eyes flashed at Motkar, angry perhaps for having his theory contradicted logically. “Maybe he was just being too clever by half, Motkar,” the senior inspector lashed out, then suddenly stopped and changed his tone. “No, no . . . you are right. No murderer would call suspicion upon himself by putting his own name, even the most over smart criminal.”

  He paused once more then glared at Motkar again as if the brief moment of self-doubt had passed. “But mark my words, Motkar, this is a double murder—both Sanjay and Anushka Doshi were killed. Just wait for the post-mortem results and you’ll see I’m right. When are we getting it?”

  “In a day or two, sir,” Motkar replied.

  Saralkar grunted. “I’ll die of heart attack the day they give us a post-mortem report within twenty-four hours.”

  Constable Shirke gave an involuntary chuckle while Motkar also found himself agreeing with the sentiment expressed by his boss.

  “Anyway, check out the addresses of the different Sodhis mentioned in the documents. Maybe one of them will lead us to the real Sodhi’s whereabouts,” Saralkar said. “And collect the thumb impressions of the different Sodhis from the property registrar’s office and check through the State and National Crime Records databases if we get any matches with known criminals.”

  “Yes, sir,” Motkar replied.

  “Any luck with finding the locker or possible bank account of the Doshis?” Saralkar asked.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Hurry up, Motkar,” Saralkar grumbled. “What about tracing the acid to its source?”

  PSI Motkar just shook his head this time.

  “And what about the number that had called Anushka Doshi twice at odd hours? Has the caller been traced?” Saralkar asked with mounting belligerence.

  “Well, Constable Shewale hasn’t . . .”

  “Don’t blame Shewale, damn it!” Saralkar suddenly flared up. “Shewale isn’t whiling away his time acting in amateur theatre, Motkar! It’s you who has been doing that!”

  Not for the first time in his career, PSI Motkar experienced first-hand his boss’s uncanny knack of finding chinks in his armour.

  PSI Dulange lay prostrate before Rangdev Baba. He was overwhelmed to have been summoned for a rare, personal darshan of the holy man.

  Rangdev Baba muttered his blessings and patted the policeman’s back gently.

  PSI Dulange rose and sat back on his knees, his arms folded.

  “How is our sweet little Anand progressing?” Rangdev Baba asked referring to Dulange’s nine-year-old, suffering from mental retardation.

  “He’s much better, Baba . . . all due to your blessings,” Dulange replied.

  “That’s good. But why didn’t you bring him with you?”

  Dulange hesitated. “I wanted to but Akhandanathji said you wished to see me alone about something.”

  Rangdev Baba threw a vexed glance at Akhandanath who was standing to one side, then smiled at PSI Dulange and said in a perfectly intoned, affectionate rebuke, “Next time remember you require no one’s permission to bring Anand . . . joy . . . happiness.”

  The god-man stopped and gave a little smile as if bowled over by his own pun, disguised as childlike profoundness.

  PSI Dulange was duly gratified. “Yes, Baba. Please tell me what can I do for you?”

  Rangdev gave a world-weary sigh, then spoke. “You know that my ashram is open to all. Being a man of God I can’t turn anyone away, even bad people and sinners. Right . . .? Because it is my duty to provide solace to all those who have lost their way . . . all those who approach me.”

  PSI Dulange nodded as if he understood Baba’s saintly compulsions immediately.

  “Well, one such depraved individual kept coming to my satsangs for several weeks and tried to take advantage of my piety and kindness . . . by making some outrageous propositions and indulging in immoral activities with one or two of my junior disciples,” Rangdev Baba paused, his kohl framed eyes trying to gauge the effect on his listener. He was gratified to find PSI Dulange’s face mirror his own shock and dismay.

  Baba continued. “Naturally the moment I learnt of it, I forbade the man from coming here again and was also going to expel the disciples who had fallen prey to his machinations. But they begged my forgiveness, and as you know forgiveness is second nature to me, so I let them stay.”

  PSI Dulange nodded understandingly. “Who is this person, Baba? Is he causing trouble again? Do you want me to fix him?” he asked, eager to help.

  Rangdev Baba shook his head sagely. “The miserable sinner is beyond human intervention. I am informed that he killed his wife and then himself a few days ago. His name was Sanjay Doshi.”

  Recognition dawned on PSI Dulange. “Yes, yes, the homicide cum suicide case in Kothrud.”

  “Exactly. The man lived an evil life and died a sinner. May God forgive him. What I am worried about, Dulange, is that the investigation into the case is bound to bring to light his misdeeds and crimes. It might also reveal that he tried to use my ashram and one or two of my gullible disciples for his own selfish, nefarious motives.” Rangdev Baba paused and closed his eyes as if too distressed to continue.

  PSI Dulange hastened to comfort him. “No, no, Baba. You shouldn’t worry yourself unduly. Just because he was your devotee and had some links with your disciples does not mean the police will seek to investigate you.”

  “I know that, Dulange, but you know the times we live in. A whiff of a scandal is enough . . . The media and everyone is ready to pounce on all god-men because of the few charlatans in our midst. It would really set my heart at rest if you can find out for me . . . if any such whisperings are afloat in your department.”

  PSI Dulange found the request odd. For the first time since he had become a bhakt, he found himself wondering about Rangdev Baba. Not that his faith cracked but why was Baba so anxious if he had no immediate connection to Sanjay Doshi? Nevertheless, Dulange’s sense of obligation asserted itself, albeit cautiously. “I’ll certainly try and find out what I can, Baba, but if you don’t mind, can you tell me exactly what this man Sanjay Doshi and your two wayward disciples had been up to?”

  Rangdev Baba realized that PSI Dulange had not turned out to be as gullible and unquestioningly grateful as he had hoped. Trying to fob him off would prove counterproductive. He summoned his entire acting prowess and proceeded to tell PSI Dulange a carefully crafted combination of fact and fiction, which he had fortunately prepared beforehand.

  Senior Inspector Saralkar’s headache peaked in the late afternoon. It had already travelled halfway across his skull, and going by its trajectory he knew it would end up where his neck met his head. It produced a sickening, nauseating feeling and all the thinking he had been doing about the Doshi case had only made matters worse.

  Moreover his mind had thrown up no promising theories or hypothesis, no startling insights or interesting little possibilities that had not already struck him before. Any further brooding and dissection of facts in the closed confines of his office was not going to get him anywhere for the moment. It was only going to intensify his suffering. Nor was there any point in getting after Motkar.

  Saralkar made a decision. He got up from his seat, walked out of his office, trudged down the stairs, started his motorcycle, and was off. Every movement had been sheer agony for his fragile skull, every jerk producing a sensation of disorientation, but Saralkar knew that if he had to get through the rest of the day, his sterile office was not the place to be in.

  The best option was to visit the Doshi flat and t
o explore the possibility of finding a proverbial needle in the haystack. Not that the Kothrud police or PSI Motkar wouldn’t have done their job thoroughly, but if there was one thing that years of policing had taught Saralkar, it was the importance of double-checking for anything that may have fallen through the cracks.

  It took him about twenty-five minutes to negotiate the traffic and when he reached Atharva Apartments, the combined assault of the heat and pollution had taken its toll, but the headache, for some mysterious reasons, was a little better.

  He took a deep breath at the upsetting thought of climbing the staircase, but what couldn’t be avoided had to be endured. The residents of Atharva Apartments seemed to have returned to some semblance of normalcy. They appeared to have taken the murder cum suicide into their middle-class strides. A man was talking on his mobile in the parking, a maidservant was drying clothes in a balcony, a grandfather was curled up with a newspaper in the verandah of a ground-floor flat, like on any other day.

  All of them noticed him but there was no wide-eyed curiosity or frowns of apprehension. A policeman prowling about the premises had been absorbed into their routine. Climbing up the staircase, Saralkar was also accosted by a couple of school-going kids, rushing down the steps, chasing each other playfully with accompanying sound effects. Even they didn’t seem in awe of the sight of a police officer, making sure only that they didn’t dash into him.

  A lone, forlorn, bored policeman sat on a stool outside the Doshi flat, playing some game on his mobile. He scrambled to his feet as the huffing and puffing figure of Saralkar came into view, climbing up the last flight of stairs.

  Saralkar’s head had started pounding. “Open the flat,” he managed to say, out of breath.

  The constable dipped into his pocket, produced a key, and unlocked the door. A whiff of the pungent air wafted out of the flat as fresh air rushed in. Saralkar’s nostrils could still smell the faint odour of decomposition, which had combined with mustiness and staleness.

  He stepped in and cast a glance around the hall. Two people had lived here and died unnatural deaths. There had to be something in this living space that explained what had gone wrong. Where was he to begin looking?

  The Kothrud police had inventoried everything tidily and tagged items of possible importance. He had studied the lists. Nothing really out of the ordinary. Nothing he could put his finger on that could be classified as odd or revelatory.

  In fact that’s what had bothered him . . . the items not on the list. No personal IDs except driving licenses, no commonly held documents of any kind—life insurance policies, cheque books, pass books, important bills, no photographs, no cameras, no computer, no scribbled note pads, no boxes full of assorted odds and ends.

  As if the Doshis had been living on an island completely unconnected to the mainland or as if Sanjay Doshi had removed all the things that would distract from the main narrative—of him having murdered his wife and committing suicide.

  But why would anyone do that? In Saralkar’s experience, human lives that ended abruptly, including by suicide, always left behind a mess—a whole load of junk to be done some other day, which never came. From the utterly trivial to the most important, cherished items from the past to earnest desires of the distant future, from the extremely personal to the merely casual— evidence of a normal existence lived till it was unnaturally cut off. Like, he still remembered how he had found on the table of a suicide victim an autograph book signed by a few celebrities and friends, right next to an unused gift coupon of a nearby mall. Just two of the innumerable pieces of the poignant jigsaw puzzle of an unfortunate human being’s life.

  Where were such bits and pieces of the lives of the Doshis, amongst their belongings? Why were there only clothes and accessories and kitchenware and furniture and showpieces and stuff—the hardware of life but not the software?

  Saralkar spent an hour examining the inventories, like a kid detective hoping to stumble over a neglected, well-hidden clue. His headache had considerably weakened by now. Saralkar paused, pondering over what was most likely to have been overlooked by the policemen handling the routine search task. Two possibilities now suggested themselves to him, as he looked around for the umpteenth time—the refrigerator and the newspaper stack piled up above the shoe shelves.

  Yes, he was quite sure the Kothrud police team might not have felt any compelling reason to check the contents of the refrigerator or rummage through the newspaper stack. He walked over to the refrigerator first and opened it. He bent over to peep in, then realized he would have to drop onto his haunches to have a better look.

  His haunches complained as he eased his weight onto them. Saralkar wasn’t sure how long they would hold up and so began to quickly examine the contents. There was a half-empty bottle of coke on the side and two lagers. A solitary bottle of water gave them company along with a jar of ketchup. Two small bottles containing what looked like puree or some thick liquid but without any labels on them stood inconspicuously behind the bigger bottles. There were eggs in the egg compartment, butter in the butter tray, and bread in the top shelf, next to a bowl of some soup or rasam. Another vessel contained a rice dish—yellow coloured with assorted vegetables and topped by grated coconut. Another airtight container in the middle shelf had some leftover curd rice, next to a ceramic container which seemed to have a fish curry, going by the smell.

  Saralkar’s thighs were now definitely groaning under the stress they were being subjected to. He quickly glanced into the vegetable tray, which was more or less empty except for a few shoots of spring onion. He pushed back the tray and lumbered to his feet. Ripples of pain shot through his thighs and knee joints. The aging process, thought Saralkar, was well and truly on its way. He grunted and opened the freezer compartment. The ice trays were full, while the rest of the freezer had ready-to-heat packs of chicken, along with an unopened pack of ice cream. There was also another plastic bottle with liquid, again without a label. What were these bottles of liquid, Saralkar wondered. He picked the bottle up, holding its neck between the first two fingers of his inverted palm to avoid touching the cap, shut the freezer, put it on the table, then took the other two small bottles out which he had earlier seen beside the beer and water bottles.

  He hollered out to the constable, who came running.

  “Put these in some plastic bag and give it to me.”

  The constable, eager to assist, reached out to collect the bottles with his bare hands.

  “Use a bloody handkerchief,” Saralkar snapped at him. “Do I have to tell you that? Every school kid also knows this from watching TV serials. And hold them only by the cap.”

  The constable winced and managed to pull out a clean handkerchief, in itself a minor miracle, and scrambled away to find a suitable plastic bag.

  Saralkar stared thoughtfully at the refrigerator for a second, then turned his attention to the stacked newspaper raddi. He doubted there would be anything much to find, but some instinct propelled him to run through it. The preferred paper of the Doshis seemed to be the Indian Express and the stack dated back to about a month and a half. There seemed to be nothing of note, just neatly crease-folded papers—no marked items or ads, no annotated pages. And then, nearly at the bottom of the heap, as Saralkar lifted another issue of the Indian Express, pages of Deccan Herald, a paper almost exclusively read in Bangalore and Karnataka state, stared back at him.

  He skimmed through the four newspaper pages quickly, looking for any items that might suggest why the Doshis were interested in it. None of the news items seemed of any striking relevance. There were also a couple of display ads, three obit announcements, and two distress inserts—one a missing person ad and the other a return appeal to someone who had left home. He studied the various photos and names in the ads. Nothing aroused extraordinary curiosity or the hint of a connection to the dead couple.

  Saralkar placed it aside and pondered his various discoveries. What were Deccan Herald, fish curry, curd rice, rasam doing in the hou
se of the Doshis—a surname that was ostensibly Gujarati with almost no likelihood of South Indian ancestry. Unless of course Sanjay Doshi had been a second- or third-generation Gujarati brought up in one of the South Indian states or his wife Anushka had been a South Indian.

  The senior inspector’s memory stirred. Hadn’t Motkar said a neighbour had mentioned she thought the Doshis hailed from Bangalore? His headache had all but disappeared now as he dialled Motkar’s mobile number.

  “Motkar, which neighbour had said she thought the Doshis were from Bangalore?” he asked as soon as his assistant took the call.

  “Mrs. Seema Tambe, sir. She stays on the same floor, across the Doshi flat,” Motkar replied efficiently. “Where are you now, sir?”

  But he was speaking into emptiness since Saralkar had already hung up.

  The senior inspector put the Deccan Herald pages into the same plastic bag the constable had provided for the bottles and walked out of the Doshi flat. “Lock the door,” he instructed the constable curtly, then went across and rang the doorbell of the Tambe flat.

  The door did not open immediately and just as he began wondering if there was anyone at home, it opened slightly, with the chain lock in place, as if to prevent anyone rushing in. It was a young girl, looking out apprehensively. “Papa isn’t home and Mummy’s resting,” she said even before Saralkar spoke.

  “Oh! I need to speak to your Mummy, Mrs. Seema Tambe, for a minute. May I come in?” Saralkar asked.

  The girl hesitated. “But . . . uncle . . . Mummy is unwell. Papa said she should rest and is not to be disturbed; that’s why even I have not gone to college.”

  Saralkar clicked his tongue impatiently, then asked, “Is your Mummy down with a viral or something? Too weak to get up?”