3 and a Half Murders: An Inspector Saralkar Mystery

by Salil Desai

  This time the girl’s face clouded further as if she would rather slam the door in his face than answer. She reflected momentarily and said, “Uncle, can you please speak to Papa? I’ll dial his number if you want.”

  She produced a mobile and began dialling before Saralkar could either nod or object. “Hullo Papa, a police officer wants to talk to Mummy. I’ll give the phone to him.” She held out the phone for Saralkar.

  “Hullo, Mr. Tambe, this is Senior Inspector Saralkar. I need to speak to your wife. Can you please ask your daughter to let me in?”

  Tambe’s voice was squeaky and timid. “But . . . er . . . sir, my wife is really unwell. Can’t you come later, please?”

  Saralkar’s tone became a lot more authoritative. “What exactly has happened to her, Mr. Tambe? She’s not hospitalized, so surely if she’s at home, Mrs. Tambe can’t be so ill that I can’t speak to her for a few moments.”

  Tambe’s voice became squeakier still and softer, almost down to a whisper. “Sir, the fact is Seema, my wife, has had a nervous breakdown. The doctor said it’s . . . it’s most probably because of the Doshi . . . uhh . . . incident. So he’s advised complete rest and no stress. In fact, he’s also asked us to go away for a few days, which we are going to do this weekend, as soon as my leave is sanctioned.”

  “I see,” Saralkar said, his harshness falling away but not his exasperation. “I understand. Have you consulted a psychiatrist?”

  “Yes. Dr. Dheeraj Nene. You see, Seema had a panic attack yesterday. She is afraid to be alone now. She thinks someone is going to, well, murder her . . . like what happened next door with the Doshis.”

  Saralkar stopped himself from giving a derisive grunt, at what he thought as a hysterical over-reaction. Not only because he couldn’t deny that the human mind was a delicate, sensitive mechanism that could go to pieces any time but also since it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps Seema Tambe may have had reason to believe that her neighbours were both murdered. Maybe she or her subconscious knew something that she hadn’t told the police.

  “Mr. Tambe, I understand your dilemma, but I promise none of my questions will disturb or cause further shock to your wife,” he said gently, trying to sound as sincere as he could.

  A less meek man would have refused but Tambe belonged to a category that wouldn’t dare to defy officialdom. “Okay . . . but . . . please, Inspector, I don’t want my wife traumatized . . .” he begged.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Tambe, I’m giving the phone to your daughter. Please tell her yourself.”

  He returned the phone to the girl, who fastened it to her ear and listened. “But Papa—” she mildly protested once then said, “Okay” and disconnected.

  She threw a disgruntled, hostile glance at Saralkar as she unlocked the chain lock and let him into the house. She didn’t ask him to sit nor did she say another word. The girl just went inside, to communicate with and fetch her mother.

  Saralkar was sure he had just managed to lower her father’s esteem in her eyes. He sat down uninvited. Now that the headache was on the wane, he was feeling hungry. If not something to munch, tea would definitely help. He very much doubted that the girl would offer him some unless the mother told her to. But why should she? Policemen were not guests. They were unwanted, scary intruders.

  The house was almost a replica of the Doshi flat structurally, but was far more lovingly decorated. Mrs. Tambe probably seemed to be an old-fashioned, house proud home-maker, as indicated by the over furnished drawing room.

  He could hear a very faint murmur from an inside room, probably the daughter coaxing her mother. Maybe Mrs. Tambe was really prostrate, too weak and disturbed to meet him. Once again Saralkar realized just how inconsiderate and ruthless a man he was. Motkar, for example, wouldn’t have insisted on meeting Mrs. Tambe in her condition as he had. But then Motkar had always been the good cop, whereas he, Saralkar, did not in the least mind being the good, bad, or ugly cop, depending solely on whatever the situation demanded, moved the case forward, and got results soon. That streak was a part of his DNA.

  Saralkar waited impatiently for mother and daughter to show up, hoping he wouldn’t have to deal either with the woman’s hysteria or tears. The shuffling noise in the passage alerted him to the fact that the mother and daughter were making their way out.

  One glance at Mrs. Tambe’s face was enough to see that this lady wasn’t putting on an attention-seeking stunt. Her expressions were of someone who had no idea what had hit her. A debilitating fear lurked behind the super-human effort to retain dignity and control. She was dressed simply in an everyday printed cotton saree—a genteel, pleasant-faced woman who probably laughed a lot, although she seemed to have forgotten to smile now.

  Seema Tambe looked at him anxiously for a second, shepherded along by her protective daughter, and then lowered her eyes as she sat down on the sofa. Her daughter glared at the senior inspector, sitting right next to her mum, holding her hand.

  Saralkar was suddenly and uncharacteristically determined to be gentle and patient with Mrs. Tambe. “Thank you, Mrs. Tambe, for meeting me,” Saralkar said, spouting words unfamiliar to his gruff tongue. “I am very sorry for disturbing you. Are you feeling better now?”

  Mrs. Tambe seemed to feel reassured enough to make eye contact and nod. “Are you sure about the way they died?” she surprised him by asking in a tremulous whisper.

  Saralkar leaned forward and asked, “Do you have any doubts about it, Mrs. Tambe? You don’t think Sanjay Doshi killed his wife and then himself?”

  Mrs. Tambe stared at him for a second, then looked at her daughter as if trying to draw comfort. “I . . . don’t know. I just can’t believe it. For some reason I keep imagining that someone entered their house and killed them both. And now he’s going to get me too . . .”

  She stopped, suddenly beginning to tremble, hiding her face in her hands. Then when her daughter drew her closer, Seema Tambe embraced her. “Oh God! I just want to go away, somewhere far . . . where no one will try and murder me in my own house. I’ll go crazy otherwise; I am so scared. I feel a murderer is lurking in the next room all the time.”

  There was no mistaking the pounding fear in her voice, a fear that had somehow been let loose and was running amok in her mind and consciousness.

  Saralkar realized he’d made a mistake. He shouldn’t have barged in on her suffering by bullying her husband. It was possible that her fear was based on something real—facts that she knew about the Doshi’s lives which she had chosen not to disclose. On the other hand, it was equally likely that her brain had conjured up a bogey, based on something she had observed at a subconscious level or it was simply her imagination gone wild.

  Or maybe it really was an irrational, unreasoning fear that had nothing to do with reality. Either way he could see that Mrs. Tambe seemed to be in no condition to be questioned.

  To salvage the interview, Saralkar made one last effort. “Mrs. Tambe, please calm down. You have nothing to fear at all. There is a policeman sitting just outside your door all the time. He’s going to be here for the rest of the week. No one can enter your house without passing him. Calm down, please! If you don’t believe me, ask your daughter.” He paused and gestured in the direction of Mrs. Tambe’s daughter.

  For the first time the daughter’s hostility seemed to evaporate. “Yes, Mummy,” she said, squeezing her mother’s arm. “There is a constable outside and I’m also there, no.”

  Mrs. Tambe looked from her daughter to the inspector and then back again, “But . . . but how long will you miss college, Sapna? And what if the murderer overpowers the constable?”

  “Mrs. Tambe, policemen are trained. Please do not worry. Also, tell me what makes you think that Sanjay Doshi didn’t kill his wife and commit suicide? Why do you think someone killed them both? Did Mrs. Doshi ever confide in you that they were threatened by someone or did you see someone come to their house and make death threats?” Saralkar asked.

  Seema Tambe began sobbing
and even more bizarrely, the sobs were succeeded by poignant giggles. “It-it’s hard to believe that . . . thin, puny husband could’ve killed Anushka. He was subdued . . . and scared of her,” she managed to say finally, ashamed of her outburst and giggles. But it seemed to have calmed her down a bit. “No, she never confided in me about any threats, but I just remembered there was a man who had come a few times . . . with whom they had a fight once or twice.”

  “Fight . . . What about? And when?” Saralkar said leaning forward with cautious interest.

  “I-I don’t remember. I heard some commotion on the landing so I opened my door. All I could hear was something about money and mother. Then they all saw me and fell silent. Anushka was looking very, very angry and her husband looked pale. The young man was standing with his hands on his hips, his back towards me. Anushka quickly said to him, ‘Get out and don’t dare come back’ and withdrew inside the house, pulling her husband too. She slammed the door. The young man was about to knock on the door hard, then caught a glimpse of me, and slunk away.”

  “And you are saying this young man came more than once?”

  “Yes. I saw him again, once or twice. Once in the lane outside the society, he was accosting or threatening Mr. Doshi, who seemed to be pleading with him, and then he had also come last week. I was climbing up the stairs and he was descending, all red faced and viciously furious. He averted his eyes from me and left,” Mrs. Tambe said, her voice much more steady.

  “Did you catch a glimpse of his face?” Saralkar asked hopefully.

  Seema Tambe nodded and Saralkar realized that her fear seemed to be receding into the background, just a bit.

  “Will you be able to describe him to my police artist? I can send him across.”

  “What’s a police artist?” Mrs. Tambe asked doubtfully.

  Her daughter answered before Saralkar could. “Aai, a police artist will ask you the man’s features—what kind of hair, colour, nose, mouth, eyes, all such things—and then he’ll draw a sketch of the person, based on your description.” Sapna inadvertently looked at Saralkar for approval.

  “Your daughter’s right. If you are able to give a good description, police artists can come up with sketches that bear close resemblance to suspects,” Saralkar replied, then attempted some armchair psychiatry. “It might also help you psychologically to get over your own fear, if subconsciously your mind feels this man could’ve harmed the Doshi couple.”

  There was no basis to his assertion but Saralkar felt it would tip the scales.

  Mrs. Tambe reflected for a second, then said, “Maybe you are right. Every time I saw the young man, his face was suffused with rage as if he bore a deep hatred or grudge against the Doshis,” she shuddered. “And the most frightening part is, somehow he looked familiar, especially when he averted his gaze that day while coming down the stairs, as if he recognized me but wanted to avoid.”

  “Do you think you know him?”

  “No. I just had a familiar feeling as if I’d seen him earlier, not in the recent past though,” Mrs. Tambe paused. “Maybe that’s why I feel scared . . . that I know the person yet don’t know who he is.”

  “Trust me, Mrs. Tambe, the session with the police artist will make you feel better. We all need to reduce our nameless fears to something tangible or manageable and then it starts losing its power over us,” Saralkar said, surprised how pretentious he was sounding, yet how sincerely he had actually spoken.

  Mrs. Tambe looked at him gratefully and Saralkar almost felt ashamed of himself. He really hoped the session with the police artist would turn out to be cathartic for her. Even her daughter seemed less hostile towards him now.

  “I have just two or three more questions, Mrs. Tambe. You told one of my colleagues that you got the impression the Doshis were from Bangalore. Right? Can you tell me what was the reason you felt so?”

  Mrs. Tambe was thoughtful. “I am not sure exactly but I think we were once just chatting and I said to her that my husband, Sapna, and I were planning to go to Bangalore, Mysore, Ooty. Anushka looked at me with interest and said that the city was her hometown. I am not sure whether she said ‘our’ or ‘my’ but she said it. What was odd was that after that she clamped up and when I asked her some questions to help me plan the trip, she was quite evasive, as if she didn’t want to discuss anything more.”

  “I see . . . Did she say when or how long ago she’d stayed in Bangalore?”

  “No, nothing. She didn’t say a word about her family or share any memories about the city or places or highlights, the way we affectionately talk about our hometown. Nothing at all.”

  “And she made no other references to Bangalore any other time?”

  “No, never. I broached the Bangalore topic once more after we came back from our trip, but Anushka didn’t show any interest, which I thought was very guarded or very unnatural for someone who claimed to hail from Bangalore,” Mrs. Tambe said and paused. “Then I thought maybe she had some bad memories of the city, that’s why.”

  She shrugged, sounding almost normal now.

  “I see. And did Mrs. Doshi ever mention whether they were Gujaratis?”

  Mrs. Tambe replied promptly. “I had asked her once because her accent puzzled me. It sounded South Indian whereas her surname was Gujarati. Anushka only said her husband was Gujarati but did not elaborate but I am more or less sure she was a South Indian, although I have no idea whether she was a Tamilian or Telugu or a Kannadiga or a Malyali.”

  Saralkar nodded with understanding. India’s mind-boggling diversity made it difficult for almost any average person to be sure of each other’s exact origins, unless one was an exceptionally keen observer. “What makes you so sure?” he asked. “Apart from the accent.”

  “Well, the aromas from her house were . . . well . . . very, very South Indian—fish, sambhar, that sort of thing. Besides we have the same cook—Surekhabai. I asked her once what they cooked and she told me all kinds of South Indian and Goan dishes. Not one mention of any Gujarati cuisine.”

  She was cut short mid-sentence by the ringing of the doorbell. Startled and nervous, fear returned to Seema Tambe’s face. Sapna, her daughter, got up to answer the bell. “It must be Surekhabai only,” she said reassuringly to her mother.

  The next moment the cook stepped in through the door, smiling benignly at her employer. “Feeling better today, tai?” But she froze as her eyes fell on Senior Inspector Saralkar. She began hastening towards the kitchen.

  “Just a minute, Surekhabai,” Saralkar called out.

  She stopped and turned reluctantly.

  “Mrs. Tambe was just telling me what kind of food you generally cooked for the Doshis. I’d like to hear from you.”

  Surekhabai looked uneasily at Seema Tambe.

  “I told Inspector Saralkar that you told me that they generally preferred South Indian and Goan dishes,” Mrs. Tambe prompted before Saralkar could stop her.

  “Yes . . .” Surekhabai said with hesitation. “Doshi madam employed me because I knew many South Indian and Goan dishes well.”

  She rattled out the names of different dishes, none of which seemed to have any Gujarati connection.

  “Were both husband and wife South Indian?” Saralkar asked her.

  “I think so,” Surekhabai replied, fidgeting.

  “Wasn’t Sanjay Doshi a Gujarati?”

  “I don’t think so . . . never heard him speak in the language.”

  “Do you understand Gujarati, Surekhabai?”

  “Just a few words, but I can recognize it,” Surekhabai replied and volunteered further. “They always spoke to each other in English or a South Indian tongue.”

  “Which language?”

  “How would I know, sahib. Tamil or Malyalam, I guess.” “Why didn’t you tell me before?” Saralkar asked with some asperity.

  “You never asked me, sahib! How am I to know you wanted this information?” Surekhabai said defiantly.

  She was right, Saralkar knew. “How did husband
and wife address each other? Did they use first names or what?”

  Surekhabai hesitated. “I don’t remember him ever calling his wife by first name, but many times she called him Krishna.”

  “Krishna?” Saralkar sat up puzzled. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean she never called him Sanjay or Sanju or something?”

  “No, always Krishna,” Surekhabai said. “I-I thought it’s his nickname.”

  “Yes . . . Yes, even I heard her refer to her husband as Krishna once or twice . . .” Seema Tambe suddenly interrupted.

  Saralkar turned to her and stared questioningly.

  “I thought it was a slip of tongue. We were talking and she said ‘Krishna will be back soon’. So I asked her who she was referring to and she looked at me and said that I had misheard the name. She just pretended she never uttered the name Krishna,” Seema Tambe said with excitement. “Then another time, I was just climbing down from the terrace, when their door opened and Anushka hissed out ‘Krishna’. I was not visible to them. Her husband had probably just stepped out and she was calling him back for some instructions. When I came down the flight of stairs on to our landing, they were just talking, but I distinctly remember her hissing out that name.”

  Saralkar listened quietly, then looked at both women. The visit had been fruitful. The neighbour and the cook had certainly given him something substantial to chew over, and his headache had also been cured.

  “Would you like some tea, inspector uncle?” Mrs. Tambe’s daughter, Sapna, suddenly asked.

  For the first time since morning, Saralkar felt gratified. “Throw in some biscuits too, if you don’t mind,” he replied with all the charm he could manage.

  Constable Shewale once again dialled the unknown number from which two calls had been made to Anushka Doshi’s mobile—one on Friday late night and then early on Saturday morning. He had still not received customer details from the service provider, but blaming them was hardly going to placate PSI Motkar or Senior Inspector Saralkar.

  To his great surprise, the number, which had hitherto remained, unanswered or switched off, was now picked up. “Hullo?” a man came on line.