Murder In Mumbai

by K. D. Calamur

  “OK,” he said. “We’ll take him along.”

  “Eh, watchman,” the constable said. “You’re coming with us.”

  The watchman looked at Sakharam and then Gaikwad. From their expressions, he knew it wasn’t a request.

  “Sirji,” he said. “I don’t know anything. Mother swear.”

  Gaikwad glowered.

  “We’ll talk about it at the station.”

  Gaikwad hated this part of the job, so he usually left it to Sakharam, who troublingly seemed to revel in it. Gaikwad sat—half-stood—at the edge of his table at the police station. The watchman was seated; Sakharam stood in front of him.

  “What did you see?” the constable asked.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  The Nepali had seen it in the movies, but when the thud of the slap from Sakharam’s palm landed on his face, he rocked the chair back and ended up on the floor. The watchman held his cheek, now inflamed and stinging. Tears welled up in his eyes.

  “What did you see?”

  “Sir, I swear nothing.”

  The slap this time was harder—though he could not feel that because of the pain that was already shooting through his face and the humiliation that was spreading through his body.

  “Sir, I swear. I swear. On my mother’s head. I didn’t see anything except what I told you earlier. Mother swear.”

  “So someone walks in. You don’t ask him anything. You don’t see what he’s wearing. You don’t ask him to sign in. So either you aren’t doing your job or you were in on it. Which? Think and answer.”

  As he watched the watchman squirm, Gaikwad felt guilty. He knew this was wrong, but this was a force that believed no one respected the police unless you humiliated them and forced them to cooperate.

  “See,” Gaikwad said, lowering his voice, making it more sympathetic. “We’re here to make you remember. Cooperate and you can go home. If you don’t, I’ll leave you with Sakharam. He will do a lot more than slap you if I’m not around.”

  The constable smiled, relishing the possibility.

  “Go to the cell and wait there. I’ll give you an hour. Think it through.”

  As Gaikwad saw the watchman being pushed into the cell, his phone rang. “What’s the status of the murder investigation?”

  It was DCP Adnan Khan.

  “We’re pursuing leads, sir.”

  “What are you—a bloody press release? Tell me what you’re doing.”

  Gaikwad told him about the latest burglary, and shared with him his suspicion that it might be part of the same series.

  “Same types of equipment were taken, sir,” he said. “And we are questioning the watchman.”

  “OK,” Khan said. “Don’t leave any scars. You have this evening. If you don’t get anything, hand the case off to someone else. You need to focus on the murder.”

  Chapter 3

  Gaikwad propped himself against the seat of the parked Enfield and took a sip from the tall glass of watermelon juice. It was dusk, when the light from the setting sun fought a losing battle against the coming night. Behind him, the traffic crawled toward Worli and the suburbs, an inch at a time. There was nowhere to go, but the horns still had something to say. Two-wheelers sought the tiniest gaps between cars and squeezed through to wheedle their way home. The breeze from the sea acted as a salve for the day; the drink refreshed him. Gaikwad was at Haji Ali Juice Center, a Mumbai institution. Inside, the tables were packed with lovers and families, their incessant cacophony creating a hive-like buzz. Waiters hovered around, taking orders, delivering trays full of drinks, little pizzas, and other snacks. Outside, men were propped against bikes and scooters, rich kids from South Bombay awaited their orders in their 7 Series BMWs (with tinted windows, of course) and families waited to get in. Although he was not a philosophical man, Gaikwad had to wonder about the unceasing banality of life. Here he was drinking juice, watching the rest of the world go about its daily monotony, knowing that his next task would alter the course of another man’s life: Gaikwad was on his way to the Barton residence, to tell Liz Barton’s husband that his wife was dead.

  * * *

  Several things bothered Gaikwad about the case, where the body was discovered and its condition being prime among them. The initial examination revealed the body had been in the dump for at least a week, through seven days of the city’s worst rains in two decades. Gaikwad belonged to the school of thought that believed that what wasn’t apparent was as important as what was obvious. And what wasn’t apparent to Gaikwad was why, if the woman had been lying in Mahim for at least a week, had she not been reported missing. In fact, if it hadn’t been for her runner’s bracelet, they might not have identified her as easily. Where was her husband? And what was his role in this?

  Gaikwad looked past the juice center to the sea and said a silent prayer to the Haji Ali mosque in its illuminated splendor against the backdrop of the setting sun. It was more from force of habit than any enduring faith. His father brought him here when Gaikwad was a boy. They would stop for juice at the center and then walk on the causeway, accessible only during low tide, along with other worshippers—Muslim, Christian, Sikh, Hindu—to seek their miracles at the tomb of the fifteenth-century saint. Now, long after his own faith had become shaky, Gaikwad found himself yearning for the routine of his boyhood. He could see worshippers at a distance silhouetted in the dark, walking like ants toward the mosque. The bells from the nearby Mahalakshmi Temple, dedicated to the Hindu goddess of wealth, brought him back to the present. He drained the glass, got back on the Enfield, and turned onto Warden Road.

  He went over the details of the case—the few details he had. Jay Ganesh, the reporter, had told him that the woman had been threatened publicly by an environmental activist. Her husband was having an affair—things did not look good for him right now. And her relationship with the billionaire Kabir Khurana was close—whatever that meant. God knows what other skeletons lay buried, he thought. Better to get started with the husband and the activist.

  Gaikwad did not feel comfortable in this part of the city. Although his uniform gave him a modicum of protection and, indeed, power, he felt displaced. Here, Mumbai had remained Bombay more than fifteen years after the city had been officially renamed. To Gaikwad, it had always been Mumbai. And in fact what you called it varied depending on the language you were speaking at the time. It was not uncommon for someone speaking in English to call it Bombay and in the same breath refer to Bambai when speaking in Hindi or Mumbai in Marathi. It wasn’t as if Gaikwad resented the idea of someone calling his city by its Western name. What galled him was the way the city’s old neighborhoods and their people were dismissed, as if they no longer mattered to those who lived in the more affluent parts of the city; parts like the one he was now riding through.

  Gaikwad drove past the legendary Warden Road Club with its swimming pool the shape of India before its partition at independence in 1947. He imagined Britons of the time, sipping their G and Ts, summoning their wallahs with their drinks, complaining about the infernal state of affairs, all the while reveling in a pool shaped like the country they ruled. Little had changed at the club, Gaikwad thought, in the more than six decades since the country had become free. Although the club no longer had boards that read “Dogs and Indians not allowed,” it still offered membership only to those with non-Indian passports—so they could be free to be free without, as a recent newspaper article put it, offending “Indian sensibilities.” Gaikwad was not surprised. This was the part of the city where the residents were proud to say that they felt more at home in the East Village or Knightsbridge than they did in the city’s suburbs of Vikhroli or Ghatkopar. On the rare occasion that Gaikwad had one drink too many, he would rail against what he saw as neo-colonialism. His wife, Lata, invariably shut him up.

  The U.S. consulate, with barricades to prevent people from getting too
close, lay to his right. Even in this age of a shining India, the line outside during the day was serpentine: nervous students with admission letters in tow hoping for a slice of the American dream; families hoping for a reunion with loved ones; businessmen hoping for a slice of the pie; touts, with offers of notarized documents, photographs and photocopies, hoping for a quick buck. Just past the consulate, on Nepean Sea Road, lay Liz Barton’s apartment building.

  Gaikwad parked his bike and walked through the gate.

  “Baar-Tone,” he said to the watchman. “Baar-Tone sahib.”

  “Eleventh floor,” the guard said, bobbing his head noncommittally.

  He walked into the waiting elevator where the liftman, in a neat gray uniform with Sea Breeze Apartments printed in small gold lettering upon his chest, pressed 11, as if informed by telepathy where Gaikwad wanted to go.

  He found the bell and rang it. He could hear footsteps on the other side; the volume of the television being lowered, more footsteps. The door opened.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. John Baar-Tone?”

  “Yes. I’m John Barton.”

  “I am Inspector Vijay Gaikwad with Mumbai Police Department,” he said, displaying his police badge. “Can I come in?”

  John Barton moved aside to let the inspector in.

  Gaikwad’s eye immediately went to the giant TV on the wall. It was turned to CNN International. The latest images from Afghanistan filled the screen. Barton picked up the remote and hit mute, leaving the war to unfold without the needless explanation.

  Gaikwad took in the apartment. The living room was large, almost as big as his entire flat. It was decorated well, with Indian art on the walls; bronze religious figurines from various Indian regions. Gaikwad knew enough to know these were not knockoffs or prints. He could hear the sounds of an invisible maid in the kitchen.

  “What is this regarding, inspector?”

  “When did you last see your wife, Mr. Baar-Tone?”

  “My wife? Why?”

  Gaikwad had seen it many times before. The realization that something is amiss; the dawning that this policeman is here to give him some bad news.

  “What’s happened to her?” Barton said, his voice a little louder. “What’s happened to her?”

  “Mr. Baar-Tone, please sit down.”

  He did as he was told.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news. A body was found today near St. Michael’s Church in Mahim. We have reason to believe it was your wife.”

  “That can’t be right,” he said, not believing his own words, hoping against hope that this man had his information wrong. “Liz has never been to Mahim.”

  “We need you to identify the body, sir,” he said. “It’s a formality.”

  The man was staring blankly at Gaikwad now, tears pouring down his face.

  “Whenever it’s convenient, sir.”

  “Of course,” he replied, now more mechanical.

  “Do you have a friend you can call, sir? Someone who can stay with you?”

  Barton nodded, still looking dazed.

  “And, sir, forgive me for asking this, but when did you last see your wife?”

  “Two weeks ago. She went to Singapore on work.”

  “Singapore?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long, sir?”

  “That’s it, you see,” he said. “She was supposed to go for ten days but came back early. I had gone to Madh Island with friends and tried to come back, but the roads were flooded.”

  “Did you speak?”

  “On the day she returned, yes. But we lost power there, the phones were out from the rain; my cell phone battery died. I came back as soon as I could.”

  “And was the house empty when you returned, sir?”

  “Yes. I just figured she was at work. I called there, but got no answer. I tried her cell phone, but she’d left it behind at home.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Gaikwad said. “If you remember anything, please let us know. I’ll send a constable at nine tomorrow to pick you up.”

  Gaikwad shut the door behind him and walked to the elevator. Barton’s grief was genuine, but the inspector found it strange that while the city seemed to know through the media that Liz Barton was dead, her husband did not. Gaikwad also knew he was having an affair. He’d have the chance to ask him more questions the next morning. In the meantime, he still had to talk to Gaja Kohli.

  * * *

  There were two ways in which to conduct an investigation: You could go in without any warning and surprise and possibly coerce a suspect into a confession, or you could make an appointment and treat it like a sympathetic conversation until the suspect revealed something new. Gaikwad preferred the second way. It was, in his mind, less messy, more effective. Immediately after leaving Barton’s house, Gaikwad called the environmental activist Gaja Kohli, who agreed to meet him in an hour at an Udupi restaurant in Nariman Point.

  It was dark when he got there. Gaikwad was struck to find the restaurant was near the Mohini building, a massive glass-and-concrete structure. Outside the building was Mohini’s logo: two palms enveloping the Earth. In the recent protests against the company’s operations, some signs had cleverly parodied the symbol—with the palms crushing the Earth.

  Gaikwad saw reporters, cameramen, and photographers gathered in a scrum outside. Some of the TV reporters were doing inane live shots, no doubt offering new—and undoubtedly false—tidbits about the case. By now, everyone knew that the American CEO of an Indian company had been found dead. The vultures were hovering.

  Gaikwad walked into Madras Café. There were a few diners, mostly bachelors who had no one to cook for them at home.

  “Kohli?” he said, making his way to a table where the activist was seated with a woman.

  Kohli was wearing a long kurta with jeans. He had stubble on his face and looked tired. He peered at Gaikwad from atop his glasses. The woman was dressed in a loose-fitting salwar kameez. Her cell phone was on the table and she kept glancing at the time on it, as if every moment here was time ill spent. She looked at Gaikwad warily. He recognized her immediately. She was Arundhati Hingorani, the city’s premier human rights lawyer.

  “Inspector sahib,” Kohli said. “How can I help you?”

  He spoke in Marathi, the local language.

  “I’d like to talk to you about the Baar-Tone case.”

  They sat in the non-air-conditioned section (the air-conditioned section cost more and the department was footing the bill). A cashier, either the owner or a close relative, sat behind the counter, greeting familiar faces. Incense sticks behind him paid obeisance to Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, and Laxmi, the goddess of wealth. Gaikwad could hear the buzz of efficiency—or was it the ceiling fan that whirred noisily above them? Waiters moved silently about; a water boy ensured no steel tumbler was unfilled.

  Like most Udupi establishments, Madras Café left a large tray filled with water in steel tumblers on a pedestal near the entrance, so thirsty passersby could slake their parched throats. Not many people paid attention to it anymore, but it was a custom meant to reverse discrimination against India’s lower castes, who for thousands of years were not allowed to drink water from the same source as their higher-caste brethren.

  In Gaikwad’s mind, this was India at its best. While every community clung desperately to its customs and language and culture, Mumbai asked no questions. No one cared who you were, what caste you belonged to or where you came from. The city was the confluence of the three things that improbably brought the country together: cricket, Bollywood, and food. It took India’s disparate, often warring identities and crafted something entirely new—something unrecognizable, uniquely Bombay.

  Gaikwad looked at the man sitting across him. He knew that had it been someone else investigating
the case, Kohli would be in a cell being threatened with slaps; who was he kidding—those threats would have been followed through. Of course, that was not his style. Besides, the man had a lawyer sitting next to him: and not just any lawyer. From the body language the two shared, Gaikwad could tell their relationship wasn’t merely professional. He figured that meant her defense of him would be even fiercer. Gaikwad would have to tread carefully with the questioning.

  “He’s done nothing,” she said, almost on cue.

  “We just want to talk, madam,” Gaikwad said, putting on his most officious tone.

  “He barely knew her,” she said.

  But Kohli placed his arm on her to signal that he would handle it. Gaikwad could see her relent.

  Gaikwad regarded himself as a modern man, but one thing he still relished was the formal tone in which conversations were still conducted here. Despite the country moving ahead, people clung to that formality in speech, in manners. But this woman was direct. More direct than he was used to. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “Sir,” he said, looking at Kohli and turning on his sugar charm, “We would like your cooperation in this matter. As you know, a foreigner has been killed. We just want your help.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Kohli replied.

  “You were seen arguing with her a month or so ago,” Gaikwad said. “Media reports say you threatened her.”

  “You believe what you read in that gutter press?” Hingorani interjected.

  “Madam,” he said, trying to appeal to her better side, “please understand my predicament. The pressure is on us when these things happen.”

  “If your department treated people with respect and wasn’t taking bribes, it might be one thing. You people want it both ways.” She paused. “OK. Get on with it.”

  “Thank you, madam,” Gaikwad said. He wanted to hate this woman, but he knew somewhere that she was right. And if he brought it up with either his wife or his daughter, he knew they’d agree.

  Men nowadays, even the ones who spoke English fluently and dreamed in the language, were still officious when they saw someone in uniform, but women, especially educated Bombay women, were different. Uniform or not, they were self-assured to the point of arrogance. On the one hand, it irritated him because the order of things was being disturbed. On the other, he thought of his own daughter and it made him proud, because he could see her with exactly the same self-confidence this woman possessed.