Murder In Mumbai

by K. D. Calamur

  “Sir,” he said, looking at Gaja. “When did you last see the murder victim?”

  “At the party.”

  “Never after that?”

  “Didn’t you hear him?” Hingorani replied.

  He ignored her. “And what did you think of her?”

  “She represented an obstacle, but she was not a target. It’s the company, all these multinationals that come here. We want them out.”

  “OK, sir,” Gaikwad continued. “I have to ask you this: What were you doing last week?”

  “He was with me.” Again it was Hingorani.

  “I haven’t even said which day,” Gaikwad said, smiling this time.

  “Doesn’t matter. We were together through the week.”

  Gaikwad continued looking at Gaja. He looked uncomfortable.

  “We were together, inspector.”

  Gaikwad knew that he was concealing something.

  “Is there anything else you want to share with us?” he asked. “Possibly someone else who might have a grudge against her?”

  “How the hell would he know that?” Hingorani barked. “Now, if you’ve finished wasting our time, we’d like to leave.”

  Gaikwad heard the words, but they didn’t register. His gaze had not left Kohli. There was something there. He could see it. A conflict within him. Kohli was weighing whether he should divulge what he knew.

  “Sir,” Gaikwad said, “Whatever you say will be in the strictest confidence.”

  “Nothing, inspector. That’s all.”

  “Thank you both for your time,” Gaikwad said, gesturing to the waiter, who brought the bill.

  “Let the police department take this,” Gaikwad said. “For your cooperation.”

  He wished he could get another ten minutes with Kohli without the woman present. But that wasn’t to be right now.

  Chapter 4

  Had Jay Ganesh ever wanted to escape angry parents, an oppressive spouse, the burden of caste or the trap of poverty, he would have run away to Bombay. It was, he knew, the easiest place in the world to get lost—15 million people, all leaving you alone. That’s why he knew finding Liz Barton’s killer wouldn’t be easy.

  Jay could not help but wonder about Liz Barton’s life. He had often seen Western backpackers trying to walk unobtrusively through the city’s streets, despite their size, gait, and garb. Many of them seemed to be in a trance. It was one thing following the advice of your Lonely Planet guide and going to Haridwar and Hrishikesh for the Kumbh Mela, watching people, each simultaneously an individual and a mass of humanity, but it was something quite different to watch that orchestrated chaos day after day, moment after moment in this city. Most visitors to the country were content to take in the Taj Mahal in Agra, possibly Rajasthan and Delhi, but Bombay was chaos and Bombay could swallow you up without you even realizing it. Is that, he wondered, what happened to this woman?

  Jay remembered a trip he took across America in the late ’90s. It involved little money and many Greyhound buses. He made it a point to sit behind the driver, just so he could be content with a sense of security. In parts of the South or in vast, lonely expanses of the Midwest, it seemed as if he was the only person of color for miles. It was not as if anyone made him conscious of this fact, but in moments of great solitude, your identity often becomes more apparent to you than it ever has in the past, than you ever thought it could.

  The ringing phone broke him out of his reverie.

  “Do you have that story ready?” It was Manisha Thakkar, his editor.

  “Yes. I sent it to you ten minutes ago. I’m trying to work on the Khurana profile.”

  On the ride back from the Taj last night, he and Janet discussed what they had seen and heard. Jay knew he would never be able to persuade Manisha to let him investigate the murder. There was simply too little to go on—“unless you count gossip,” Janet had told him. So they decided that they would together pitch a profile of Kabir Khurana, a man who had been close to the dead woman. It would be a backdoor way to get into the Barton case, and if Jay learned anything in the process, so be it. The ride back to the newsroom was quick—too quick, Jay thought. Somehow, being with Janet seemed natural. For perhaps the only time in his life, he hoped for traffic.

  He’d spent the morning Googling Kabir Khurana, to see if there was anything other than the usual fawning profiles. He tried to look for personal information, but little was available besides what was already known: the son of a famous nationalist leader; educated at Harrow and Oxford, where he was a cricketing blue; against his father’s wishes, an MBA from Cornell; returned to India and instead of joining politics as was expected of him, took over the long-ignored, much-ailing family business, which in a matter of two decades he turned into a global player in mining, energy, and telecommunications; spoken of reverentially by both his allies and his rivals; keeps a very private profile; whispers about his fondness for women, but nothing ever in the open; is known to do The Times cryptic crossword every day.

  Many of the profiles of Khurana that Jay did find were based on interviews with former college classmates who knew him decades ago. If the articles were to be believed, Khurana was a near saint. Jay, as a matter of course, did not believe in saints.

  Next, he decided to go through the most recent news articles about Khurana and his businesses. There was little he didn’t already know or that he hadn’t come across in the articles he had just gone through. The only thing that he found interesting was that Khurana had lost a bid on a project that eventually went to Mohini Resources. It was the same project that was now being held up because of the protests organized by Gaja Kohli.

  Jay didn’t like the idea of doing profiles. But at least this one was interesting. Not much was known about this man. If he did a good job, and Jay had no doubt he would, the piece might even be fun.

  * * *

  Jay’s editor, Manisha Thakkar, had been ecstatic when he pitched the story.

  “I should send you out on assignments to the Taj with Janet more often,” she quipped.

  She said she would start the legwork to find out how to get in touch with Khurana. But tracking him down would be hard. Unlike others among India’s wealthy, Khurana avoided the spotlight. No flashy cars, gaudy homes, or salacious sex scandals—none public anyway. If there was anything murky about his business dealings, they were never discussed. Since his company was privately held, there was little reliable information about his actual worth, though estimates agreed that it was somewhere in the low billions.

  Jay decided he would have to use his own resources to track down Khurana. He thought of the one person he knew could help: Priyanka, his ex-wife.

  “You’ve really got to stop calling at odd hours of the day,” Priyanka said with the mock disdain one reserved for old friends. “People will talk.”

  Jay laughed. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Of course you do,” she said. “How may I be of service?”

  “I need to know where Kabir Khurana is.”

  “You and everybody else. What do you need him for? Something juicy, I hope.” He could almost hear the glee in her voice.

  “Unfortunately not. I’m working on a profile.”

  “Jay Ganesh—society reporter?”

  “Not quite. But I thought it would be a good way to talk to one of the people involved with Liz Barton.”

  “You’re a devious bastard. You know that, don’t you,” she said. She sounded amused, but impressed. “You know it’ll be difficult, right—if not impossible? That guy might have his fingers in every pie, but he is very hard to get in touch with.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s why I called you. You’re known to deliver the impossible.”

  “Ah! Ever the flatterer. Let me see what I can do.”

  “You’re the best, Priyanka.”


  With time on his hands, Jay decided he’d look over his notes on the burglaries that he’d been investigating before this case came along. There must be a story in there somewhere, he thought. For the past few weeks, it seemed like that was all he’d been writing about—especially because of the brouhaha caused by those whose homes were burgled. They’d excoriated the police force and said the city wasn’t safe anymore. And with each passing day and each burglary, the police looked more inept. It had made for great news. But with Barton’s body being discovered the previous day, all Jay could think about was that killing. The burglaries seemed trivial in comparison. He went over his notes and sighed. There was nothing in there—nothing that he hadn’t put in a story already. He hoped the profile of Khurana would lead him to something better.

  * * *

  Jay didn’t have to wait long to hear back from Priyanka. His cell phone buzzed. He read the text message: “Your man’s in town. Can be found in the evenings at Red Rose apartments, two buildings down from here. You’re welcome.”

  Jay was impressed with her efficiency.

  “You REALLY are the best,” he replied. “I owe you. How did you find out?”

  “Let’s just say I have a source working for him—we share the same maid. Ha!”

  Jay was amused, but not surprised. The city possessed an invisible network of information—domestic servants, gardeners, and drivers who all seemed to know one another and carried tantalizing bits of information about their employers from one house to another. They’d helped him out tonight.

  * * *

  As waits go, this one seemed interminable. Jay was sitting in his white Premier Padmini, known commonly as the Fiat, fresh from another series of repairs that did little to conceal its age and wear. The leather upholstery had long frayed, leaving visible signs of the protruding cushioning. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to replace the car. It was now costing him more to maintain than it was worth. But he was emotionally attached to it. It was his first big purchase, made at a time when cars lasted a lifetime and were held together with safety pins and rubber bands. Although he had moved along with the rest of the world to disposable incomes and disposable gizmos, he couldn’t get rid of this car. Perhaps, he thought, it reminds me of what Bombay used to be like.

  He had been sitting outside Red Rose apartments for a little more than an hour in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Kabir Khurana and securing an interview. Manisha had put in a formal interview request with Khurana’s PR people, but no reply was forthcoming. In the meantime, he decided to take a more direct approach. He would wait outside and once he saw him, would accost the billionaire and talk to him. The plan was absurd, but it was the best thing he could come up with.

  * * *

  Jay craved a cup of tea. He ran up to the chai wallah at the entrance to Khurana’s building.

  “Ek cutting,” Jay said. “Pani kam.”

  The tea was frothy, and the smell of the special blend of spices in it comforted Jay, the way certain smells sometimes bring back memories of your childhood. Upscale coffee shops were popping up on every corner, but this hit the spot like nothing else. What is it, he wondered, as he took the last sip of this tea, that makes us cling to vestiges of the past even when the present is rushing in with such great force? Even standing on this street, outside the home of one of the richest men in the world, Jay saw it. The chai wallah and paan wallah, the coffee shop, the new mall; the emaciated man defying the laws of physics to pull a handcart that was twice his weight; the twentysomethings in their Mercedes SUVs. The contrasts jostled for space, but there was no battle for supremacy. Because India in its all-encompassing glory allowed both to flourish. And flourish they did.

  He returned to the car and waited. The first hour had turned into a second and then a third. There was no sign of Khurana. The elusive billionaire was doing a good job of being elusive.

  But just as he was about to give up, a white Mercedes drove into a parking spot. The watchman ran to it, opened the door, and saluted. A man got out of the driver’s seat. It was Khurana.

  “Jackpot,” Jay said. He opened the door and got out of the car. “Mr. Khurana,” he shouted.

  But Khurana appeared not to hear him.

  “Mr. Khurana.”

  Khurana stopped, seemed to hesitate a little before slowly turning around. He smiled. “Yes?”

  “I’m Jay Ganesh—with the Tribune. We put in an interview request.”

  Khurana looked confused.

  “We’d like to do a profile of you for the paper.”

  He could see Khurana think and pause for an instant longer than necessary. The billionaire then smiled. “You know, Mr. Ganesh, I don’t do interviews. Sorry.”

  He continued walking. But Jay was persistent. He walked alongside Khurana. “It’ll be quick,” he said. “I won’t take up much of your time.”

  But Khurana continued walking toward the apartment building, ignoring the reporter who was walking alongside him.

  “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Khurana,” Jay said, “But your father was both important and great. He gave me my first interview when I was a cub reporter.”

  Khurana paused and looked at Ganesh.

  “You’ve met my father?”

  “Many years ago,” he replied. “Yes. It was at his Laburnum Road house.”

  Perhaps it was the mention of his father that touched something inside Khurana, or perhaps it was the memory of his boyhood home; either way, Jay could see Khurana was reconsidering.

  Finally, he smiled.

  “You’re very persistent, Mr. Ganesh,” he said. “Come tomorrow morning. My assistant will call you today and make the arrangements.”

  Chapter 5

  About ten minutes after he woke up the morning after discovering Barton’s body, ill prepared to deal with the world, Inspector Vijay Gaikwad knew it was going to be a bad day. Half-asleep, he staggered to the bathroom, urinated, and began brushing his teeth.

  “Are you waking up?” he asked Lata, who had bundled herself into a little ball under the covers.

  “Five minutes,” she replied, trying unsuccessfully to keep the new day at bay. “Make tea.”

  Gaikwad looked at the clock on Lata’s nightstand. He’d already missed his morning walk with Chitre. These days, it was the only exercise he was getting. He walked past the children’s room to the sparsely furnished living room. He could see his son, Sachin, draw the covers over his head, hoping against hope his parents would leave him in bed so he could miss school. His daughter, Kavita, was already making her way to the bathroom.

  Gaikwad thought of his relationship with his own father. He used to tremble at the man’s voice. His words were the law. When his father came home from work in the evenings, it was expected that Gaikwad and his brothers and sisters were quiet until the old man finished listening to the news on All India Radio, after which he inquired after their homework and their academic progress. Yes, Gaikwad thought, times had changed. His son was emblematic of that change. The boy was fifteen and on the verge of his school-leaving examinations, one that could make or mar him for the rest of his life. But the boy’s attitude toward school and toward life in general was dismissive, as if it were all a big joke. He was always in front of the television, watching inane programs, or playing cricket with the other idiots in the neighborhood, and then standing on corners and watching giggling teenage girls walk by. In short, anything but studying for the exams that had the potential of taking him to a better life. Gaikwad knew he shouldn’t compare his children, and he would never have done it openly, but he couldn’t help but wonder why his boy couldn’t be more like his girl.

  He thought of the last time his wife had asked him to talk to the boy about taking his studies more seriously. The boy’s replies were either flippant or monosyllabic. He did not seem to understand the world he was up against: one billion Indians,
more Chinese, and the rest of the world. Gaikwad wanted his son to be more than he was, but the boy had little interest in anything but the most mindless fun.

  His daughter, Kavita, on the other hand, was the polar opposite. Two years younger than her brother, star at her school; everything she touched turned into gold. They had more awards from her than they had place to display and Gaikwad and his wife were proud of her, proud that they had created this clever little girl. There was no need to worry about her, but his boy, yes—there were plenty of reasons to worry. Why is it, Gaikwad wondered, that we spend our time worrying about the ones who don’t live up to their ability? Sometimes it felt to him that in their worry about their boy, they didn’t encourage their daughter for her success. Success was almost expected of her. It seemed unfair to him and he thought he should bring it up with his wife.

  He pushed the thoughts aside and opened the front door. He picked up the milk in the two plastic bags and the daily paper. The world might have moved on to websites and mobile news and the twenty-four-hour entertainment on TV they peddled as information, but in Gaikwad’s world the paper was the civilized way of doing things, the way his father had done it. He remembered his own father sitting down at the table while his mother prepared breakfast: poha, a sort of puffed rice, and chai. The children were not allowed to talk as he read the paper, page by page, cover to cover, headline by headline, until he had perused it completely. Although he had never left the country, his father had been one of the most well-informed people Gaikwad had ever met. And though he had chosen a different path for himself—policing instead of teaching—the older he got the more he appreciated the habit that he had formed merely by watching the old man: reading the daily paper over a cup of tea.