by Vish Dhamija
‘And the floral womanly scent?’
‘Could be a blind; could be nothing.’
The press conference was looming closer every minute. In two hours. What lead could they hope for in the next couple of hours? Chances were slim to none. Of course they could get lucky, but it was laughable to assume luck as part of any investigation process.
Hope isn't a strategy or an answer.
Fortunately, the turnout at the press conference wasn't as big as expected. A random death of an inconspicuous man in a Mumbai suburb wasn't of much interest to the bigger media houses: most of them, now, owned by large corporations. This would hardly sell any extra papers or attract additional viewers. A line item, maximum. Rita, accompanied by Vikram and Jatin and a few uniformed officers, gave a brief synopsis and assured that the crime squad was looking for a male suspect. The entire Dubai angle was suppressed. Why incite the press?
'Any questions?' Rita concluded.
'Could we have the autopsy report, DCP Ferreira?' asked a stunning young girl sitting in the second row.
Rita looked closely to see whom she represented. The girl was sharp to infer.
'I am from NEWS of the DAY.'
NEWS of the DAY was the darkest shit in yellow journalism in Mumbai. The son of a corrupt ex-minister ran the local paper from a plush office in Nariman Point. Like many other crooked politicians in the country, the father had siphoned millions from the state exchequer before being made to resign. The son getting into media was a clever ploy. Media scarcely maligned media. It is like four people, with loaded guns in their hands facing each other, who knew that if one shot, all would die. The maverick son of the ousted minister, Amit Narang was now getting back at those in power by uncovering the failure of any state- run organisation. The police was an easy enterprise to target. The masses loved NEWS of the DAY. It was cheap, carried scintillating news, Bollywood gossip, a few lewd pictures of scantily clad females, and over-exaggerated anti-establishment op-ed columns. How the government and those in power were exploiting the poor, the underprivileged. And, now, to cap it all, they had got themselves a reporter who was fit enough to be on Page 3.
'We cannot pass on the autopsy or forensic reports to media Miss —'
'Anita. Anita Raizada. And may I ask why the public shouldn't be aware of the investigation?'
'Because it's confidential. We cannot make the entire investigation public. I'm sorry.
Anything else?'
Inspector Jatin Singh was the last to leave the office. It was almost 10 p.m. when he walked out of the building. In the darkness, his sharp-cop eyes could see a silhouette move near his parked jeep. As a reflex, his hand moved to the holster inside his jacket to feel for the faithful service revolver. It was in place. He slowed down and pulled out a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He waited for his eyes to get accustomed to the darkness before he walked towards the vehicle. Remember, panic only advantages the predator, he repeated in his mind.
'I am not armed Inspector,' she said and raised both her arms over her head after she inhaled a cigarette and emitted a sharp beam of smoke.
'Who are you and what are you doing near my vehicle?'
'Anita Raizada.'
'The press conference is over.'
'The day isn't.’
'What do you want?'
'A drink.' She was gorgeous. Even more attractive than how she had looked at the press conference only a few hours ago. Young — she didn't look older than 23 or 24, demure, petite, five feet three or four, straight brown shoulder length hair, espresso eyes. A casual ocean blue polo shirt and figure hugging blue jeans. She was someone God — or whoever — had crafted. A work of art, born or made in heaven. 'I promise I won't talk shop. And the drink's on me too.'
'Why?'
'Why not?'
It was an undemanding request from one of the prettiest girls he had met since his college days. He looked at her again to assess. Thin waist. Admirable chest. Not big, but right for her frame. High cheekbones. Flattering jaw. Shapely lips. And a just-right butt. Plus, she had promised she wouldn't talk shop. Why was he being an arse? Who was he kidding?
'Okay. One drink. Where?'
'Toto’s at Bandra?'
'You got a car?' He looked at her. She shook her head. No.
'Get in then.' He unlocked his.
‘So you went out with a media girl?’ Vikram Patil was surprised when Jatin divulged about his meeting with Anita the previous evening.
‘That’s one way to look at it, I suppose. I didn’t go out for a drink with the NEWS of the DAY correspondent. I spent an evening with Anita Raizada. And anyway, it was only a few drinks.’
Vikram gave a lopsided smile. He could twig the difference. There wasn’t anything detrimental as such, but the top bananas up the Mumbai Police tree might have another view.
Rita did not have an adverse view of the rendezvous either. Nevertheless, she advised Jatin to be cautious. ‘Be careful of your words, these journalists have a tendency to misinterpret and misquote. Do not, at any rate, disclose any intelligence, or investigation that is not in the public domain.’
‘No worries, ma’am. I am not sure I shall be meeting her again.’
‘You make me laugh. I know you might not be looking forward to see her again, but, believe me, she would.’
‘I shall decline…’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s good to know what the media thinks. Anyway, I leave it to you. Just make sure you warn her before every meeting that it is off the record and anything you might say is your own view, and not the department’s.’
‘Trust me on this, ma’am.’
The girl, as Rita remembered, had enormous chips on both shoulders. The arrogance of youth. Rita could judge it would become a nuisance in little time; close friendship between a police officer and a reporter — that too for a loud-mouthed rag — would soon be a conflict of interests. Media bodies had always courted with the police for information, for tidings, for various favours. Anita would dig for sensationalising stories and Jatin would have an awkward time concealing true facts that could potentially seed hair-raising news articles. This could be some hard to resist pillow talk, she mused. Nevertheless, there was little difference in being a friend or a foe of a snake; sooner or later it would bite you, Rita heard her brain whisper.
‘As a matter of fact, she wanted to see you to apologise,’ Jatin said in a soft tone, as if he was the one apologising.
‘What for?’
‘For her awkward questions last evening.’
‘I am OK. The fourth estate has the right to question anyone.’
The transcripts of the previous day’s investigations were at the desk in the room. Rita picked them and left for her office.
As requested by crime squad, the uniforms had covered the neighbourhood. 54 full-time uniformed officers had been on the job round the clock.
“Did you see anything strange last night?”
“Did you notice any suspicious man or woman hanging around the apartment block?”
“Did you see Mr Lele in the last 24 hours? If yes, when?”
“Any sound/scream? Gunshot?”
No one knew anything about the heinous killing or the killer.
It turned up nothing except frivolous information. Lele loved chicken-tikka as a pizza topping. Enjoyed cricket. Treasured old Hindi film DVDs.
No hawala broker in Mumbai had a female courier. Or so the reports from various sources claimed. The Dubai number Vikram had obtained from Lele's personal assistant neither responded nor returned the call.
A search warrant for Lele’s premises was obtained. His personal laptop didn’t offer much help. E-mails were few, and only official. An occasional joke or chain mail forwarded. It was mostly used for accounts, but had no reference to any hawala transaction. Obviously not. Hawala prospered on verbal commitments, not on receipts. Internet search history was full of porn, some even downloaded to the hard drive. Lele, contrary to what his personal assistant
might have believed, had no testified will, and in that case all that was his was now his only brother's, who was in Sydney. Fortunately, there was no one to cry for what had once been Adit Lele. It made Rita think how hollow any success was, how passing life was, when there was no one to shed a tear?
The local police station had called in Anne — Lele’s personal assistant — for questioning, in light of her relationship with her boss. Yes, she had slept with him on occasions. Hardly a crime. She lived with her mother at Byculla, and was with her mother the whole time. The alibi was double checked with neighbours who had seen her return home from work and then, again, around 11 p.m.
Lele's bank account showed no irregular transactions, despite him laundering money all over the world. All his friends, business associates, and even acquaintances had been checked out and cleared. The police had contacted all the recently used telephone numbers on his mobile; none of the people called had met Lele that evening. There had been no headway. Not a single fucking lead.
FIVE
2007
Samir Suri was livid. A two-and-a-half hour delay on a two hour and twenty minute flight was deplorable. Utterly unacceptable, at least, to someone as busy and important as him: CEO of India for a large Korean conglomerate. The reason he had agreed to a mid-day flight from New Delhi, leaving other critical work, was to meet two people in the evening before his day- long meeting the next day to discuss, and sign, the underwriting agreement for the upcoming IPO; the Korean parent company needed funds for expansion, and there was no better market to exploit than the rising middle class of a newly awakened India, aroused by materialism.
And why not? For over five decades since Independence, the economy had been shielded from foreign companies. The state controlled infrastructure, core industries, the licences. Numerous jokes did the rounds for decades that India had gone from British Raj to Licence Raj. Those walls had been pulled down now, foreign investment was coming in, and the citizens even got opportunities to invest in overseas businesses. Corporate India was waking up. Brown dollar was becoming important.
Samir Suri had no doubts that the IPO would be oversubscribed, but the underwriters had to be convinced. For that reason, his first meeting for the evening had been scheduled with the Executive Assistant to the Chief Minister of Maharashtra state; Samir would confirm the company's commitment to invest in the state by putting up a manufacturing plant near Pune. That information, he knew, when it got transmitted from the CM's office, would soften the underwriting firm's questions. When the flight got delayed, he had to ask his secretary to reschedule the meeting for breakfast the following day.
It would be hectic, but it had to be done.
Samir looked out of the window as the captain asked the staff to "prepare for landing" in ten minutes. The Arabian Sea was calm. Marine Drive was distinguishable by its streetlights along the promenade that resembled a string of pearls.
8:29 p.m. Samir's mobile rang the instant he switched it on. He was still walking out of the aircraft. He glanced at the screen to see the called ID. Unknown Caller. He thought for a moment, and then picked it up. 'Good evening, Samir here...oh hello...yes. Yes...yes...I know, I did. Unfortunately, my flight got delayed...oh, you know...I am sure. Oh, yes, of course, I want that, not so tired…ha…I am staying at ITC Grand Maratha...oh you know that?
Fantastic. What time can you make it there...it should take me, uh, thirty minutes? OK...I shall wait for you in the room...is there a telephone number I could call and give you my room number after I check in? …Oh, you'll call me? Fine. See you soon.' He killed the call and smiled. the boot.
The chauffeur from the hotel paged for him as he walked out of the airport.
'Could I smoke in the car?' Samir asked the chauffeur, as the latter put the baggage in
'You're a guest sir, you can do anything.' When had any driver stopped any guest from misusing the car? This was Mumbai; the chauffeurs dare not instruct the rich guests. Guest was God, a guest that was paying was an even bigger God. A guest could smoke, fuck, whatever in the backseat...
Samir lit up and called his wife. 'Hello sweetheart. Just got in…yes, I’m in the car now.'
'Tired?' she asked.
'Oh yes. Listen, I have a breakfast meeting, so will grab a quick bite and turn in early tonight. I was thinking of switching off my phone. Have a good night. Love you.'
Samir checked in at the hotel, took the elevator to the room and waited for the phone call for his scheduled meeting. This appointment, too, was imperative for him. He inspected the minibar. Why did they call it a minibar when it carried enough stock to intoxicate a whole herd of hippos? He smiled and fetched two miniature bottles of Chivas from the bar, upended them into a tumbler, added club soda, and took a large swig.
His phone rang. A smile, inadvertently, passed through his lips when he looked at the screen. Unknown caller.
SIX
1982
Margaret Flynn. Deborah O'Donnell. Viviane Casey. However Irish the names might have sounded, the first names were common in India — a legacy reminiscence of the 200-year British Raj.
Margaret, sitting with the other two in the back of a local cab — a Premier Padmini, which was no better or worse than a Lada; the Jaguars were still a few thousand miles away — unremittingly solaced Viviane, as the latter was still enervated with the questions she had been posed by the officer at the check-in desk at Delhi. Despite attempting to be inconspicuous in her efforts, the middle-aged cab driver, smoking a local foul smelling cigarette, caught the tension in the passenger cabin.
'Problam?' he enquired in Hinglish looking at them in the rear-view mirror. 'Oh no. She's just upset. Nothing to worry about.'
'You from where?'
'Bombay.'
He knew it wasn't true, but he didn't care. 'Colaba, where?' he asked, lighting up another of those stinking cigarettes, which were rolled in a funny leaf, not in paper. The girls recognised what it was and looked at each other in surprise. Smiles broke and the mood changed, albeit temporarily. It was the bidi, a local smoke made popular in Soviet Union by the legendary Bollywood film star of yesteryears, Raj Kapoor, whose films were extremely popular in the Soviet in the Sixties and Seventies. The smokes were cheap — a pack of thirty bidis cost the same as a single Marlboro stick — and were common with the working class. But God, they reeked.
'At Gateway of India.'
It was getting close to 11 a.m. The infamous stop-start Bombay traffic had taken more time than the flight from Delhi to Bombay. Unlike Moscow, the smoke from cars and funny three-wheeled auto-rickshaws was nauseating; the noise and the traffic were dreadful.
Besides, there were aggressive beggars at every traffic light, something that the girls had never experienced in Moscow. Why didn't the government provide for these poor people?
According to the agreed timetable, Mr Patel would be there anytime, if he had checked the landing time of the flight. They had a little over four hours to pass. Breakfast, coffee, a bit of tourism around Gateway of India and it would be about that time, Margaret calculated in her head. All should be fine soon.
The cabbie dropped them near Taj Palace hotel and left. 11:03 a.m.: Coffee.
11:15 a.m.: Sandwiches from a street hawker. 11:30 a.m.: No sign of Mr Patel.
12:00 a.m.: Viviane: 'I'm scared.'
Margaret: 'We've crossed the biggest hurdle. There's absolutely no reason to fret now.’ “???? ? ????, ??????? ???????.” Have faith in God, dear girl.
Deborah: “?? ??????? ????????????.” You worry too much. Margaret: 'No more Russian, please. Speak in English only.' 12:52 p.m.: Margaret: 'Anyone hungry?'
Nays.
01:23 p.m.: Deborah: 'I need to go to the toilet.' Viviane: 'Me too.'
Margaret: 'Why don't we go to a café, have a drink and you two can relieve yourselves?'
Deborah: 'How do you muster up such brilliant ideas?' Smiles.
Margaret: 'But, we have to be quick. Cannot afford to miss Mr Patel.' 02:22 p.m.: Debora
h: 'Will he come?'
Margaret: 'Of course he will. Just be patient.' 03:17 p.m.: No sign of Mr Patel.
03:39 p.m.: Still no sign of Mr Patel.
Why hadn't he come? Wasn't he intimated of their travel? Would he come at all?
When? What if he didn't? Was he already here, but didn't recognise them? Margaret’s mind went into an overdrive, but she maintained a calm façade.
04:00 p.m.: Deborah: 'What do we do now?'
Margaret: 'Hang around for a few more hours. I am sure he'll turn up.'
04:36 p.m.: Viviane: 'It'll be dark in some time. If he doesn't come to pick us up, where do we go at night?'
The hysteria was disseminating. How would they fend for themselves?
04:59 p.m.: Margaret: 'Let me make a call. You two, listen carefully. Stay here. I'll locate a public phone and call Moscow to check if something's wrong. Do not, I repeat, do not move from here. If Mr Patel comes, don't go with him. Wait for me. I'll be back in ten minutes. Be alert and be brave.' Margaret unzipped her tote and rummaged to locate her little green diary. She patted the two girls on their heads, like a mother, and left.
05:13 p.m.: Margaret returned. 'I cannot get through. No one's answering the phone.' Viviane: 'I'm worried.'
Deborah: 'Me too.'
The girls weren't geared up for a no-show by Mr Patel; everything, until this moment — except for the little touch-and-go moment at the Delhi airport — had gone exactly to plan. Why, then, should Mr Patel not show up?
Margaret: 'He'll come. Maybe he's got delayed by some other work.' Deborah: 'What other work?'
Margaret: 'I don't know girl. I am only speculating. I am equally worried.' Silence for a few minutes. Then:
Margaret: 'Let's set a time. If he doesn't surface by seven-thirty, we go looking for a place to stay for the night.'
Deborah: 'Where?'