Fr. Casale contemplated what he was being told. He took a sip of the drink and stared into space. He shut his eyes as if he were taking a nap. He was silent. Jay looked at Sandeep and wondered if he should say something else. Sandeep gestured to him to keep silent.
“Yes,” Fr. Casale said, finally breaking his silence. “Kabir Khurana, a nasty young boy. I remember him well.
“I was a young priest. I’d spent the previous few years working among the Bhil tribes and the church then sent me to Bombay—of course, it was Bombay then. Not Mumbai. What a great city it was then. They sent me to the school.”
The priest seemed wistful for a time gone by.
“We were a boarding school at that time. Of course, there were some day scholars, but it was mainly a boarding school. Khurana’s father was in Delhi. His mother was ill. It was decided that the boy would be a boarder though he only lived a few miles away from school.
“At first, he was like all the other boys: cricket, football, studies, school. But when he entered his teenage years, something changed. He was caught leaving the school compound at night—normally it was an expellable offense, but his father pulled the right strings with the cardinal, and the boy was allowed to stay.
“Then there were reports that he was going to the red-light district at Kamathipura. We had to have a word with the family then. He was taken home for a week and came back with bruises. He vowed not to do it again. The school told the father that the boy could not falter again.
“But of course he did. I remember clearly. The police came to the school one night and asked for him. He was a minor and so we refused. We asked them what they wanted with him. They said that he’d visited the brothel again and had brutalized one of the girls there. She was on the verge of death. The principal at the time, Fr. Austin, immediately called his father. The boy was summoned. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t show any remorse. In fact, when they asked him about it, he was said to have smiled. ‘The bitch deserved it,’ he said. Of course, that was the end of it.”
“What do you mean?” Jay asked.
“We had to expel him. He was sent away to boarding school in Britain.”
“And what happened to the girl?”
“It’s sad, but who cares what happens to an unknown prostitute? They say she survived and went back to Nepal. But who knows? No one sees them come into the city, and no one ever sees them leave.”
“What about the police?”
Casale snorted. “That’s a gullible question given that you’re a crime reporter. India might have been a newly independent nation with much idealism, son, but human nature is human nature. Corruption and evil have always existed and they will always exist.”
“What do you mean?” Jay asked.
“The Khurana family paid money to keep the whole thing quiet. Years later, Kabir Khurana returned to India, took over the family business and made a name for himself. His father of course died, and is remembered as a hero, which in many ways he was.”
“Do you think he is still capable of such acts, father?” Jay asked.
“We all are,” the father replied. “Has he kept the beast leashed? It’s possible. Has he let it escape? That’s possible, too.”
* * *
Fr. Sandeep dropped Jay off at his car. The meeting with Fr. Casale had been more fruitful than he’d expected. But what did it really prove? The public has a short memory—and the Indian public more so than most. When Khurana returned to India, the matter was forgotten. His insouciance was gone, replaced by a new composure and confidence. It was as if those years overseas had trained him to be what he was born to be: a Khurana. With the reputation he enjoyed today, people would be only happy to forgive his youthful indiscretions, if in fact assault can be categorized as an indiscretion. But then, Jay thought, we tend to forgive and forget the trespasses of our rich and powerful.
Still, all he had was a bit of gossip. The question was whether he could make the case that Khurana still had that temper and did, in fact, kill Liz Barton. But then what would the motive be? They were close. It had been suggested that they were lovers. Was it a tiff that went awry? Jay knew he was trading in theory and no newspaper in its right mind would print such flimsy allegation, especially against someone with an army of lawyers ready to pounce on any aspersion that might be cast in his direction. Certainly, during his own meeting with Khurana, the magnate had been magnanimous, even charming. Which reminded him, he needed to ask Janet what happened to those pictures. He hadn’t seen her in a few days. Was she avoiding him after that evening? Jay brushed the thoughts aside. He could only deal with so many problems at a time and compared to his nonexistent love life, these problems seemed far more solvable.
* * *
He decided to take his problem to Manisha. What would she say about his meeting with Fr. Casale? At best, something might come of it. She might tell him to investigate it a little more. At worst, she might dismiss it for what it seemed to be: gossip—salacious and juicy, true, but gossip nonetheless.
His phone rang.
“Jay Ganesh,” he said absentmindedly.
“It’s Shakil,” came the reply.
“Hey, brother! What’s up?”
“I have something for you.” His tone was serious. Jay knew at once his friend was not in a mood for pleasantries.
“Tell me.”
“Come over,” Shakil said. “Come home for lunch.”
“For lunch?”
“Yes. For lunch. Come for lunch.”
Jay looked at his watch. It was nearly evening. Far too late for lunch. He knew Shakil had diabetes and a lunch this late was out of the question. His friend must have something else for him, something he couldn’t discuss on the phone.
“I’ll be right over.”
“Come via work and pick me up,” Shakil said.
“Which shop are you at?”
“Chor Bazaar.”
“I’ll leave right away.”
* * *
Jay tried to speed his way through the by-lanes of old Bombay. They were narrow and crowded. Men sat idly by the sides of the street. Kids played. The usual army of retired folk and laid-off mill workers peered over their balconies. Jay evaded bicycles and scooters as he raced toward Shakil’s shop. The traffic came to a sudden halt. A cow was sitting in the middle of the street, slowly chewing grass, oblivious to the new India’s frenzied pace. It was less common now than when he was growing up, but cows in the middle of the street still brought traffic to a standstill. Because Hindus regarded the animal as holy, people waited until it decided to move. Some impatient drivers blared their horns, hoping this didn’t mean they would be relegated to whatever corner of hell reserved for impudent acts such as theirs. A couple of men walked up to the animal and tried to lure it toward the side of the road with the promises of more grass. Jay wished he had a scooter or motorcycle. He could have bypassed the animal and continued. He cursed the cow. He cursed the traffic. He cursed religion. The cow finally relented and moved. The city returned to its familiar frenzy.
* * *
Shakil Shah sat alone at his shop engrossed in a newspaper.
“What’s up, boss?” Jay asked him.
Shakil looked up at him and nodded his head. He did not smile.
“So what do you have for me?”
“Let’s get in the car,” Shah said.
Jay did not argue. They got into the vehicle.
“Drive.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just away from here.”
“I figured you weren’t inviting me to lunch.”
“You got that right. I don’t want my family involved in this jhanjhat.” (Trouble.)
“What jhanjhat?”
“After we spoke the other day, I decided to ask around about Eagle Services.”
&nb
sp; “What did you learn?”
“No one was willing to talk.”
“But?”
“You’re right. There is a but. There were rumors the firm had been hired to carry out a hit.”
“Who by?”
“I don’t know. No one was willing to discuss that.”
“Who was the target?”
“Now there I can help you. But you’ve got to promise me that nowhere does my name enter this if it goes any further. No matter what. I stay out of it.”
“Shakil, come on, you know me. We’re old friends.”
“Yes, but you’re also a chooth who doesn’t know what he’s dealing with. For you everything is a bloody joke. A bloody story.”
Jay didn’t say anything.
“So if you want me to tell you what’s going on, you need to promise me that you won’t involve me in any way.”
“Dude, you have my word.”
“OK. I asked around about any jobs Eagle may have been involved in. Of course, no one wanted to talk. Who wants to take a panga with someone like Chhota Mirchi? But then I heard a rumor.”
“Who from?”
“Never mind that. He’s reliable.”
“OK.”
“So I heard a rumor—a tip if you will—that Eagle had been contracted to kill that woman.”
Jay felt his heart race.
“Liz Barton?”
“Yes. That’s the one.”
* * *
After Jay dropped Shakil Shah off, he drove back toward the newsroom. Without really expecting to, he had now become fully involved in the Barton killing. Jay was so lost in his thoughts that he drove toward the newsroom oblivious of the noise and traffic around him. The only reason that he even noticed his phone was that it was on vibrate. It was Gaikwad.
“Haan, Inspector sahib,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“We’ve caught the burglars,” the inspector replied. “Come to Santa Cruz station.”
Chapter 15
Gaikwad’s day had begun without any hint of how it would develop. He rose early, met Chitre for a walk, heard his neighbor complain again about his children, the real estate market, the Indian cricket team, and his impending retirement. Gaikwad then returned home for a quick breakfast with Lata and the kids. Quick because Lata had to be at work early.
At work, his first order of business was to meet with Hindu and Muslim community leaders—or as the Indian newspapers referred to them, for fear of provoking riots, members of one community and members of another community. There had been religious tensions at a slum. Gaikwad wanted to get a handle on things before they got out of hand. It was an important and little-known part of his job. People were quick to pounce on the police when law and order broke down, or accuse the force of doing nothing when riots broke out, but officers like Gaikwad, and there were many all across the country, had regular meetings with religious elders to ensure villages, neighborhoods, towns, and cities stayed peaceful. Despite the best efforts, there was occasional violence. But in the larger scheme of things, Gaikwad was amazed and grateful that it didn’t happen more often.
Constable Gaitonde reluctantly ushered the two leaders in. They were accompanied by a retinue of young men. Each group eyed the other warily, like dogs sizing up one another before a pissing match. Gaikwad asked the two leaders to sit down and asked Gaitonde to bring them all tea. He was wondering how to broach the issue without either side taking exception or umbrage that they were being blamed for the tensions.
“They started it,” one of them said, not looking at his religious rival sitting next to him.
“No,” the other countered vehemently. “They did. If they hadn’t assaulted that boy, none of this would have happened.”
Gaikwad decided to step in.
“I understand your frustrations,” he said as if talking to a group of children incapable of playing nicely. “But you must also understand our position. We want both sides to thrive. After all, this is a democratic India where everyone has equal rights.”
“What equal rights?” one of the boys standing at the back shouted. Gaikwad shot him a stern look.
“I’m sure your leaders will agree that this discussion is best left to us,” he said. “We will come and solicit your opinions later.”
Gaitonde arrived with the tea and reluctantly served it.
Gaikwad looked at the men in front of him. They both claimed religious authority but were nothing more than common thugs. He wished he could jail them and leave them to a sadist like Gaitonde. Instead, he would have to “liaise” with them in order to keep the peace.
“We will ensure that incidents like the one in which the boy was beaten won’t be repeated. And you have my word that we will catch those responsible.”
He looked at the youths at the back. “If it’s one of you, step forward now. If it’s someone else, I expect you to name them. We have no space for incidents like this in this area.
“Sirs, I will keep my end of the bargain. In return, I’d like you to shake hands and promise me that there will be no violence. We can meet again next week to see where we are. Agreed?”
If the men disagreed, they did not show it. They promised to turn in the men responsible for the assault and vowed to keep the peace. They agreed to meet again the next week.
When they left, Gaikwad asked Gaitonde for another cup of chai. He was making no progress with the murders. DCP Khan hadn’t sounded pleased when they’d spoken that morning.
“You’re killing me, Gaikwad,” he had said. “I can only hold off the vultures on top for so long.”
Just when he thought the rest of the day was a lost cause, he received a call. The man in the video—as well as a second man—had been caught.
* * *
Gaikwad and Gaitonde arrived at the police station where the men had been taken.
“They’re in separate cells, sir,” the waiting constable said as he entered.
Gaikwad hoped they hadn’t been roughed up yet.
“Bring the main one first,” he said. “The other one can stew.”
The capture of the two men had been the result of some old-fashioned police work. Once he’d gained access to the tapes from Jay Ganesh, Gaikwad had taken them to the police lab at Kalina. There, despite the grainy image, they’d been able to come up with a likeness of the person in the video—not perfect, but better than the facial composites that were drawn up from unreliable eyewitness accounts. He’d given a team of particularly sharp officers the unenviable task of matching the image from the video with their records. It took a day, but they’d found a match. But there were two problems. It was a juvenile record from nearly two decades ago and there was no known address for the man in the video. Still, the shortcoming didn’t deter Gaikwad. He used the police techniques that had been highly effective in the old days. His men contacted each one of the known associates of the man in the video. Most had no idea what had happened to him, some had died, and one, just one, had been able to tell them where the man now lived.
Gaikwad looked up from the face on the printout he was holding. The man in front of him looked remarkably similar. If there was one thing that could be said about him, it was that he looked nondescript: medium height, average weight, a soft belly like many Indians his age, and what India’s newspaper matrimonial columns, with their obsession with color, would call a “wheatish complexion”—neither dark nor fair.
“Sit,” Gaikwad told him. “I’m Inspector Vijay Gaikwad. This is Constable Gaitonde. We have some questions for you.”
Gaikwad did not tell him that Jay Ganesh of the Tribune was in the next room watching the proceedings, taking notes for his exclusive. Gaikwad had been reluctant to call Jay, but he didn’t want to break his word.
“We know what you did. You might as well start talking now.”
There was no response. Gaikwad knew he would have to at least threaten him before he got a reply.
“Now there are two ways in which this can be done: You can cooperate and tell me everything or I will leave you in this cell with my sadist constable and send in a couple of other brutes who will first beat you, then torture you, and then think of ways to sear the pain onto your memory.”
Gaikwad looked at the constable. He looked positively excited.
“OK. I’ll talk,” the man said. “But you have to believe me. I didn’t kill her. We didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The woman. The American woman in the papers. We took the body to Mahim but we didn’t kill her.”
It slowly dawned on Gaikwad that the body had been dumped in Mahim not by the killer but by the burglar—that is, of course, if he was telling the truth. He decided to play along.
“Don’t lie. We know you killed her. We know you put her in the bag. We know you took her to Mahim and dumped her. Why did you kill her? Did she take you by surprise?”
“No. No. You have it all wrong. We were behind the burglaries, true. We were,” he said, tears trickling down his face. “But I’d never kill anyone. Never.
“I entered the house. It was dark and I didn’t want to turn the lights on just in case there was someone there. I made my way into the bedroom and suddenly tripped over something before falling to the floor.
“I was sure that if there had been someone in the house, they would have heard me. So I turned on my flashlight and saw my hands covered with blood. I wasn’t sure where it came from, so I turned the torch to the floor. I had fallen on the body.”
“Why didn’t you just leave?”
“My fingerprints. They were all over the body from my fall. If you’d found the body there, you would have known it was me. I have a prior from when I was a teenager. My fingerprints are on file.”
“Did you see anyone else while you were there? Think carefully.”
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