Murder In Mumbai

by K. D. Calamur

  Gaikwad put the papers on the table, the milk in the kitchen and walked over to say a little prayer to various Hindu gods and goddesses assembled in a shrine in the kitchen. Also in the shrine were a statue of the warrior king Shivaji and a picture of his and Lata’s late parents. It was part of his daily routine (and it would be followed by a brief stop at the temple outside the building on his way to work). Did Gaikwad believe in God? He didn’t know the answer to that. He put the daily prayers down to a sort of insurance policy, in case God did exist.

  The water for the tea was boiling. Gaikwad carefully added the tea leaves and then the milk. One spoon of sugar each for himself and Lata. He poured three-quarters of the cup on the saucer and turned the fan on, so it could cool faster. He blew into the contents of the cup and took a sip. It needed more sugar but the doctor had asked him to reduce his sugar intake. His thoughts were interrupted by Lata’s approaching footsteps.

  “Good morning,” she said as she walked into the room and into his arms. He’d never been physically affectionate, but she was and he’d not only become used to it, but had grown to like it. “You missed your walk this morning.”

  “Yeah, I know. Tomorrow that Chitre will be pulling my leg about it.”

  Lata smiled. “Are you ready for the day?”

  “No,” he said, and sighed. “I’m never ready.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Gaikwad was at work. His first order of business was John Barton. The American had identified his wife’s body. He had agreed to come to the station to answer a few questions. Gaikwad had been as sympathetic as he could be when he first met Barton, but there were too many things that he’d said that just didn’t add up. The TV channels had been relentless in their coverage of the case and their pursuit of the killer or killers. DCP Khan was demanding results fast.

  Gaikwad went over the case details. The post-mortem had said Liz Barton had been dead for at least a week. She’d been struck on the head. She’d been killed elsewhere, concealed, and brought to the dump. Could her husband have done it?

  Gaikwad liked to begin each murder case by getting to know the victim. Murders often focused on the last few days of a victim’s life and the next few days, if investigators were lucky, would focus on catching the killer. But little, if any, attention was paid to what the person was like. What his or her story was, what motivated them, moved them, what they feared. And he felt that when he asked a surviving husband or wife to talk about their spouse, it opened them up to other, more probing, questions later.

  Almost on cue, John Barton entered.

  “Hello, inspector,” he said.

  “Good of you to come,” Gaikwad said. “Again my condolences.”

  “Thank you. How can I help you?”

  Gaikwad ordered the constable to bring a Coke and a glass, and ordered a chai for himself.

  “What was your wife like, sir?” he asked.

  Barton took a deep breath.

  “I can’t believe she’s gone,” he said. “Inspector, are you married?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you know how it is. It’s hard to live without them.”

  Gaikwad nodded.

  “She was so excited about coming here. It was a dream come true for her. She was always talking about coming to India. Her parents were here in the sixties, you know. They loved it. They used to call her their Indian baby. She was conceived in this city.”

  “What did she think of it?”

  “The truth—she loved this city, but couldn’t help but be shocked by what she saw here. Her feelings were complex. She found it vibrant, liberating, contradictory, chaotic, exhilarating. At the same time, she detested much of what she loved.

  “She found the chaos stifling; the contradictions depressing. There’s no privacy here, no silence. She missed that about home. The solitude.”

  The constable arrived silently with the tea and Coke. He poured the tea into a slightly cracked white cup and the Coke into a large glass. Gaikwad took the tea, pointed to the drink, and gestured to Barton. “Please.”

  “Thank you, inspector.” He took a sip.

  When he first began this job, Gaikwad was confused when someone bereaved performed such banal actions. Was it a sign of guilt? But as time went on, he realized that these actions were non-voluntary. It was as if a body that was in shock was performing them to subconsciously relieve pressure. Barton drained half the glass with his first sip. Gaikwad wondered if he’d eaten anything since he’d heard about his wife. But he decided to press on with the questions.

  “Did she enjoy her work?”

  “Yes,” he said wistfully. “It was her life. The global recession hit us like it hit everyone. She lost her job on Wall Street. It devastated her. Then this opportunity came along; it seemed like a sign from heaven. She immediately jumped at it. And she loved the challenges of working here. Of being in a new place. Of being in a new field. Of being so removed from our old lives.”

  “What about you, sir?” Gaikwad asked. “What did you think?”

  “Initially, I was very happy,” he replied. Gaikwad could see sadness creep into his eyes.

  “Initially?”

  “It was exciting,” he said. “The opportunity was exciting. There weren’t any jobs on Wall Street for her at the time. This came along at the right moment. I just wanted what was best for her. Besides, inspector, she has always been more ambitious than me.”

  Gaikwad noticed that he had used the present tense, as if unable to acknowledge that she was gone.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She spent her time climbing the corporate ladder. I’ve spent the last ten years writing a book that at this point may never come out. But I was excited—excited about coming here. I thought it would finally give me the impetus needed to finish the revisions on the novel.”

  “What is it about—the novel?” Gaikwad asked, hoping he could use it to gain insight into this man.

  “About a man’s search for himself, inspector,” Barton said.

  “Does he find himself?”

  “I thought so, inspector. Now I’m not so sure. I was hoping this time would allow me to gain some more insight into the subject. Instead I’m here talking to you, with my wife lying dead in the morgue.”

  “Did she have any enemies?”

  “Personally, no,” he said. “But professionally she could be cold. It’s tough to be a woman in the workplace. More so at the top. Even more so in India.”

  Gaikwad nodded. Although there were some high-profile women officers on the force, the police department remained overwhelmingly male.

  “But I steered clear away from that part of her life,” Barton said.

  “Why?”

  “Well, inspector, to tell you the truth, it never struck me in the U.S., but I felt useless here. And as excited as I was to come here, I couldn’t wait to leave. Her job became what was keeping us here.

  “This might offend you, inspector, and let me apologize if it does, but it can be quite a culture shock coming to this country, this city. No matter how I try, I can’t get out the grime, dust, and sweat that cling to my skin and seep through my pores.

  “The fact that I’m a house husband is shocking to most people here. I am—was—the only male among the non-working spouses and partners. I felt patronized by some of her colleagues. The Westerners hide it well, because they are excellent at pretending, but the Indians didn’t even bother to hide their disapproval.”

  Gaikwad took in what he said, but didn’t react.

  “There are a few things about your wife’s murder that I don’t understand,” he said. “I was hoping you’d straighten them out for me.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “We’ve ascertained that your wife was killed a week ago. Where were you that Tues
day?”

  “Me?”

  “It’s a routine question, sir, we have to ask it.”

  “I told you. Madh Island. We couldn’t come back. Liz was in Singapore. She came back early.”

  “Why didn’t you go with her?”

  “It was work, inspector. She didn’t need me tagging along there, too. And as I told you before, I liked to stay out of that part of her life.”

  “Was there anything unusual that she experienced before she left? Anything that troubled her?”

  Gaikwad could see Barton wanted to say something more, but that he was hesitating.

  “Whatever it may be,” he said.

  “Nothing, inspector,” Barton said. “I can’t think of anything.”

  Gaikwad could tell he was lying.

  “OK. And who were you in Madh Island with?”

  “Friends.”

  “Friends who can corroborate you were with them?”

  The blood drained from Barton’s already-pale face as he realized where the questions were leading.

  “It’s delicate, inspector.”

  “I need a name.”

  “Uma Rhys.”

  “And what is the nature of your relationship with her?”

  “As I said, inspector, it’s a delicate matter.”

  “I need an answer, sir. Murder is a most indelicate matter.”

  “We were—for want of a better term—romantically involved,” he said. “She’s married, too.”

  “Were?”

  “It’s tenuous.”

  “I’ll need her address and number.”

  John reluctantly wrote the information down and handed it to Gaikwad.

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me, sir?”

  “No, inspector. That’s all.”

  “Another thing I can’t understand, sir. Perhaps you can shed light.”

  “I’ll do what I can, inspector.”

  “When I came to visit you, you were unaware of her death. Yet, the news seemed to be around the city for a while. No one had called you?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, inspector. I really had no idea.”

  “But you had CNN on, and I know they reported it.”

  Barton looked sheepish.

  “Actually, I rarely watch the news,” he said. “I was watching an X-rated movie when you rang the bell. I muted the sound and changed the channel. CNN was on—that was what Liz watched.”

  The explanation was inane enough to be true, Gaikwad thought. But he knew he could squeeze more information out of this man, information that he seemed reluctant (scared?) to share.

  “We appreciate you helping us, sir,” Gaikwad said. “But for the time being don’t leave town. We may have more questions.”

  * * *

  Gaikwad had appointments that morning and he told the constable to cancel them. They would have to wait for now. He phoned Uma Rhys. He had expected the call to be awkward, but the woman sounded more amused than anything to hear from him.

  “Yes, inspector,” she said. “You can come now if you like.”

  He detected a knowing smile at the end of the line. He had not raised the knowledge he had of her relationship with John Barton, but he didn’t need to. Why else would anyone want to speak to her in connection with Liz Barton’s murder?

  Gaikwad did not consider himself a prude. People made decisions that they lived with all the time. They might not be decisions they were particularly happy with or proud of, but they were their decisions nonetheless. Infidelity was one of those decisions. He knew enough men, including friends, who had been unfaithful. That did not make them bad men. It did not even mean that they did not love their families. He once heard someone say that it was extremely difficult to consistently be a decent human being. And there was something to that. Most often it was a momentary lapse of reason; at worst it was a selfish act that could not be helped. But, he had to concede that most of the adulterers—he shuddered at the antiquated notion of the word—he knew were men. They usually boasted of their indiscretions when they had drunk too much. Still, though he did not condone it, he knew it was none of his business. But this woman was different. And her reaction to it was hardly embarrassed. She seemed blasé. Gaikwad did not know how to reconcile himself with that sort of a reaction. Was it sexist? Perhaps. Was his inbuilt Indian moral code kicking in? Probably.

  His motorcycle pulled up in front of the skyscraper in Cuffe Parade. It was the sort of building that exuded the stench of wealth and power and immediately excluded those who did not reside within its walls. There was a hierarchical totem pole. The wealthiest residents, who had both money and power, lived at the top, and the top executives from the state-owned firms, who wielded more power than riches, lived near the bottom. This was in contrast to his own four-story building, which lacked an elevator. The lower floors were more prized there because of the convenience of walking up fewer flights. It was a uniquely Mumbai phenomenon.

  Each flat in this building possessed a servant’s quarter. A guard post at the gate with a watchman armed with a Doberman decided which vehicles and pedestrians could enter. The daily staff—gardeners, maids, drivers, vegetable vendors (because in India even the richest people like a good deal)—existed on a list and were checked off as they showed the building-issued ID card.

  “Yes?” the guard asked Gaikwad.

  “Rice,” Gaikwad replied.

  “Who?” the guard asked.

  “Uma Rice.”

  “Oh! Rhys. Just a minute,” the watchman said, making it a point to reply in English.

  The Doberman looked calm but alert. The guard called a number, but did not take his eyes off Gaikwad. Gaikwad could see him mutter into the receiver, but he could not catch what the man was saying. Soon, he replaced the receiver. “Madam will see you,” he said, still in English.

  Gaikwad rode the elevator to the 23rd floor, near the top but not quite at the summit. The flats on the top six floors belonged, if gossip was to be believed, to diamond traders from Surat, whose modest white shirts and trousers belied their billions. The elevator ascended swiftly and quietly. The attendant pointed to the apartment in question, lest Gaikwad wander where he was not wanted. He rang the bell and waited. A servant opened the door. “Come in,” she said. He did not have to state his business.

  He was led into a large living room with a balcony that overlooked the Arabian Sea. The floors were of marble; the windows were open and the temperature here was ten degrees lower than it was in the rest of the sweltering city. He noticed the artwork on the wall. They weren’t prints. He pretended to browse the bookshelves, but nothing caught his attention except a couple of photographs of a striking woman whom he suspected to be Uma Rhys and a much older white man. They were both smiling and looked happy.

  “Hello, inspector,” said the voice from behind him.

  He turned around. She seemed more beautiful than in the pictures. She carried herself with the casual elegance and arrogance of the Indian rich, simultaneously disarming and dismissive.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’m here to talk to you about Liz Barton’s death.”

  “And what do I have to do with that?” Her voice was teasing, even flirtatious.

  Gaikwad was flustered, something he was not accustomed to.

  “Don’t worry, inspector. I don’t want to embarrass you. I know you know about my relationship with her husband. And you’re wondering if I—or John—killed her. Right?”

  He could not have said it better himself.

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry. Much as I liked John, I like my husband more.”

  “That’s what everybody says, madam.”

  “Yes. But the difference is my husband knows ab
out my proclivities. You can ask him yourself. He’s an older man. He’s a kind man and he’s understanding.”

  Gaikwad felt even more embarrassed, more at his prudishness than anything.

  “But you don’t need to worry, inspector,” she continued. “I broke it off with John.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you married, inspector?”

  “Yes,” he mumbled.

  “Let me ask you then: Do you fantasize about other women?”

  Gaikwad’s discomfort was apparent. Uma’s smirk did not leave her face.

  The maid walked in with two cups of tea. She placed one in front of Gaikwad along with an assortment of biscuits. Gaikwad took a bite of the Bourbon biscuit, his favorite, and dipped the rest in the tea, delaying as long as possible the answer to her question. All he could think about right now was Lata and how she had proscribed biscuits from his diet.

  “You don’t need to answer that, inspector,” Uma Rhys said, laughing. “Your silence says a lot; besides, you’re human. Now imagine you were in a relationship with another woman and it went from the excitement of clandestine meetings and sexual thrills to the banalities and drudgery of everyday problems. I assume your wife already does that for you. Why would you need another avenue for those talks? Do you see what I mean?”

  “You mean your relationship with Mr. Barton had become routine?”

  “In short, yes. I wanted excitement. With his wife’s death, I knew he’d want a shoulder to cry on. That’s not me.”

  He appreciated her candor, even if he found it intimidating. “Were you with him on the night of the murder?”

  “There—I can help you. Yes. We were at Madh Island; I have a house there.”

  “And when did you come back?”

  “We returned together. I dropped him off and continued on home.”

  Gaikwad jotted down notes illegibly in his black notebook.

  “Is there anything else you noticed about him or her?”

  “Well, she was a cold fish. He was needy. Definitely wasn’t getting what he wanted from her. But you know these Western types, they like the idea of a liberated woman until they want a cup of coffee—and their wives won’t make one for them.”