by Vish Dhamija
'Sure ma’am.'
'But remember, you are in charge, not Miss Raizada.'
'No problem ma'am. Anita doesn't stand a chance.'
Oh Anita. Not sweetheart? Rita mused. Before she could say the next word, a brain wave swept in her mind like a camera zooming on something.
Anita.
'Who checked and compared the contacts on Lele and Suri's phone books?'
Takla Mathur and Chota Mathur raised their hands as if they were responding to a roll call.
'Did you notice something just now? I called her Miss Raizada and Jatin called her
Anita? We referred to the same person by two different names while talking to each other. Imagine if we both were to store her number in our contacts on the phone, they’d be under different names. I bet we missed it.' Rita was talking directly to Mathur & Mathur now. 'Did you compare only the contacts or the numbers too?'
'Contacts only.'
'Compare the numbers. Quick! If you find any common number, report to me immediately. Meeting dismissed.'
“You don’t find the connection, you don’t find a pattern; you don’t find the pattern, you don’t catch this killer ever, Rita.”
THIRTEEN
2007
'One.' Chota Mathur, followed by Takla Mathur, rushed into Rita's office before the hour was over. 'There is one common number in Suri and Lele's contact list; it is listed as "Ganesh" in one and "DVD Hegde" in the other.'
Rita's careworn face suddenly lit up, she even gave the two a smile. Some hope was tangible. At last. She was reminded of Ockham's razor — sometimes the simplest answer is the right answer; the first overlap in phone books could, maybe, determine the killer.
'Who is it?'
'Not sure you'd be interested. The number listed is for a DVD rental shop in Juhu.'
'I want every detail on the proprietor of this shop.'
"Ganesh Hegde, age 53, r/o Borivili West; married with one son, one daughter — both NRIs now. Worked for Life Insurance Corporation of India, retired at 40, opened a VHS, VCD rental in 1994, graduated to DVD rentals in late-Nineties. Been questioned twice by police — on complaints by parents for renting out pornographic films to their kids — but acquitted both times for lack of evidence; the search of the premises did not unearth any illegal films in his possession."
Rita read the résumé carefully. Strange. For fucksake, why would someone living in Delhi carry the telephone number of a Mumbai DVD rental shop?
'Vikram,' she called the Ops Room, 'I need you in my office, please.' Vikram came on the double.
'Sit.' Rita handed Ganesh Hegde's resume to Vikram. 'Did Samir Suri ever reside in Mumbai?'
'No ma'am, our investigation didn’t reveal his domicile in Mumbai at any point. He travelled to the city, but never set up residence here.’
'Why would someone who's never lived in Mumbai — except in hotels while visiting on business — store the telephone number of a local DVD rental store?' man.'
'I think I know.'
'Enlighten me.'
'Ma'am…I could be totally off the track, but my guess is that Hegde could be a front
'For what?'
'For drugs, hawala, call girls...most of the so-called respectful businessmen don't want to contact the dealer or panderer directly for this very reason — what if their phones are ever tapped or lost or, as in these two cases, found alongside their corpses.'
'I get it. He takes the order and passes it on for, whatever.'
It was the second instance where hawala had popped its ugly face up.
'Ask Jatin to call MTNL and the mobile company, and request them to provide us with Hegde's telephone records for the past two months. Check if Hegde is at the shop today without him getting a scent of this.' Rita paused to look at her watch that read 4:21 p.m. 'If he is at the shop, let's pay him a visit today.'
Vikram drove as Rita looked out at the Arabian Sea. The sun was setting like a giant red ball diving into the sea in ultra slow motion, millimetre by millimetre. Mumbai traffic reduced speed to an average of ten, maybe fifteen, kilometres per hour. It was nearing 7 p.m. when Rita and Vikram parked.
Ganesh Hegde was as stereotypical as any stereotype paan-chewing, potbellied Mumbai shopkeeper could be. With a pockmarked face, thick upturned pig-like nose and such dimensions of a head that could put a watermelon to shame. God is funny. Hegde’s red teeth were a living testimony to the reason that the British decided to colour the Indian Railway carriages rusty-red; any other colour and people like him would have painted them red with their paan-infused spitting. He had just mouthed a fresh paan out of his GH monogrammed shiny silver case when Rita and Vikram walked into his shop: a modest ten feet glass frontage that led to a rather long and L-shaped shop with purpose-built shelves on both sides that displayed the latest films from both Bollywood and Hollywood. Hegde sat behind the high counter near the doorway, appreciating the cold blast from the air-conditioning right behind his vast backside. There were a few customers browsing the shelves. To Ganesh Hegde, Rita and Vikram appeared like another couple that had walked in looking for some film for the evening, though he didn't recognise them. He had, now, been running this shop long enough and knew most of his regulars, at least, by their faces if not their names or addresses. A new account, he was pleased.
As per their script, the two police officers took in the shop, browsed the films before they saw Hegde questioningly staring at them.
'Mr Ganesh Hegde?' Rita walked up to the counter and enquired softly.
'Yes madam, but I never see you before. New to area, eh?' Hegde started in his fractured English.
'Yes. We'd like to talk to you,' Rita responded, looking back. Vikram was right behind her.
'Here, the form. Just fill the details and sign. Do you have pen?'
'We want to speak to you regarding something else.'
'Aha…what regarding Madam —'
'Rita Ferreira. DCP Rita Ferreira, and this is Senior Inspector Vikram Patil from Crime
Branch, Mumbai Police.' Rita showed him her ID badge. Vikram flashed his card too. 'Police?' Hegde's face turned red; with stray grey hair on top of his massive head, he resembled a giant rotund ember on a tandoor. The name sounded familiar, but his brain could not index it. 'What now? Did you not get the hafta I pay regular?'
Hafta: another quintessential Mumbai business. Or was it countrywide? Protection money paid to corrupt cops and gangsters on a weekly basis. Why would a DVD rental shop owner pay hafta to the cops if he did nothing unlawful? The thought raced across both the police brains in unison.
'Could we talk somewhere private, Mr Hegde?'
Hegde presaged this was something different, more sinister. No one above the rank of a constable normally turned up at his shop for money. A DCP, that too from the Crime Branch, visiting his shop had to be more ominous than hafta collection. Raid? Why had he uttered that?
'Madam, don't worry. Go, have party. I talk Inspector, we settle. OK?'
'No, you not talk to Inspector,' Rita responded in Hegde's dialect. 'All of us talk.
Private, you understand, Mr Hegde?' She didn't raise her voice, but the tone was enough for Hegde to comprehend his usual tactics weren't working.
Hegde nodded, then hailed his shop assistant — an insipid looking girl no more than twenty, wearing a sari with a scanty blouse — to look after the shop as he had guests that he was taking to his office. Hegde followed his fat belly, Rita and Vikram followed him into the dogleg at the rear of the shop; an area that was behind the shop adjacent to Hegde's, which was closed to someone approaching from the street. Taking a few films off the display unit, Hegde pressed a code and part of the shelf revolved to make way to his office. The closed neighbouring shop was, in fact, Mr Hegde's secret chamber with access from inside his shop. He switched on the lights to reveal his small but pompous office. Two faux leather sofas, a DVD player, a television — it didn't take Rita and Vikram more than a second to realise what this was primarily used for: it was
a smallish mock theatre for private viewing, and Hegde didn't appear the kind who enjoyed watching Ben Hur in private.
'Please sit,' he requested benignly. 'Coffee, tea or soft drink?' His pleading eyes didn't leave the DCP for a second.
'We don't need anything.'
'How can that be madam, you're guest and guest is God; you come to my shop for the first time —'
'Sit down, Mr Hegde.'
Hegde slumped into the sofa facing Rita and Vikram, without any further argument. 'I promise madam, there is nothing illegal in my shop, I stop stocking any illegal film years ago... No more porn, promise,' Hegde erupted without any prompting. 'I not do hanky- panky madam. I family man —'
'Hegde.' Rita consciously dropped the mister. 'Why do you pay hafta to police if you don't have any illegitimate business?'
'Madam, you know...' He turned to Vikram for help. 'Sir, you explain madam, policeman very corrupt, they demand money.'
'Talk to me Hegde. Sir will not help. Why?'
'Madam, you very strict. I pay so local gangs don't bother me and my business.'
'What all businesses do you have, Hegde?
'DVD madam, rent DVD, sometime sell. No other business.'
'Are you sure Hegde? If I find out anything…?'
'Madam, I am a God-fearing man. No business, but DVD.'
'Drugs, ganja...?'
'What you say madam…me, ganja? Never.'
'Sure?'
'Swear on Lord Shiva.'
'Hawala?'
'No madam, please don't accuse me wrong things, I am holy man.' Hegde, once again, turned to Vikram. 'Sir, please tell madam, I am gentleman.'
'And how do you think I know that?' Vikram asked. 'True, but you ask Juhu police station.'
'The ones you give hafta to?' Rita sneered. It wasn't a joke and she wasn't amused; the smile was to convey her reprehension.
'What madam, you asking unnecessary questions. We are friends.'
Tom and Jerry friends, yeah right! Rita wanted to slap Hegde but she controlled herself. 'Hegde, if you want I can come here with a brass band of police sirens to ask you the same questions, and I know you wouldn't want that.' She raised her voice, came down heavily like a desperate cloud that hadn't poured for a while. Two corpses down, Mumbai at its edge, the only commonality they had uncovered was this telephone number, and Hegde was pretending to be holier than the Ganges.
“There has to be some pattern Rita…”
'Madam, I tell you —'
'Enough said, Hegde.' Rita got up and, towered over sitting Hegde, placed her right hand on his fat shoulder firmly. 'I give you one last chance or I call Juhu Police Station, and I'll get you fucked so hard you'll regret you were ever born. Do you fucking understand that Hegde or do I need to get your ass whipped?'
Hegde was dumbfounded. He hadn't experienced anyone talking to him in that tone, least of all a woman. His mammoth face reddened more, eyes blinked. It seemed like he was about to break down like a fat schoolboy who was bullied by a girl.
'Madam —
'Stop that bloody drama Hegde, and answer me.'
'Yes madam.'
'Do you know someone by the name of Adit Lele?'
Hegde was only nervous till now, Lele's name alarmed him. 'Who?' he meowed. 'Call the Juhu SHO, Vikram. Hegde needs some severe treatment.'
'Mr Lele love Hindi movie...he come often, rent movie...now I remember.'
'What else?'
'Sometime ask 3X movie madam. He alone, he want it, why bother?'
'But you don't keep porn, you just said.'
'Sometime I get from friend to keep regular client happy, madam.'
'You know Samir Suri?'
'No.'
Suri’s name had bells clanging in Hegde’s brain. He suddenly realised he knew both the names the DCP had mentioned; he had received calls from these guys in the past week, and then read about their gruesome murders, albeit he hadn't pondered if the two incidents were connected. Till now.
'Why would he have your contact details in his mobile phone?'
'I am best DVD shop madam.'
'So good that people from Delhi contact you?'
'Joking madam...' Hegde made a feeble attempt to smile, but his smile lacked any conviction.
'So you don't know Samir Suri?'
'No.' Hegde chose to continue with his lies.
'I know you didn't play cricket with him. But does the name sound familiar Hegde?'
'No.'
Lying bastard, Rita knew.
'Adit Lele and Samir Suri died in the last week. Both had your telephone number, and only your telephone number in common in their phone contacts. Can you think why?'
'So many men die. So many rent films. How I know? And how I be blame if people die with my telephone number?'
'If they die...but what if both of them were murdered.'
Fuck. Hegde wished the earth would part and swallow him right this moment. Was she implicating him in their murders? This sounded grave, certainly more serious than renting out porn. He gulped hard, his Adam’s apple jumped up and down inadvertently like it was on an invisible trampoline.
'You supplied girls?'
Hegde looked blankly at Rita. There was a slight hesitation, which Rita noticed. Why?
Truth shouldn't need consulting the brain; it should just spill out.
Hegde was thinking; thinking what he could say to get out of the mess. The DCP had got to him. She was closing in on the reason. How much did she actually know?
'I am talking to you Hegde. Answer me.' Rita's annoyance was evident in her voice; the tone had got astringent too.
'Yes.'
'Yes, what?'
'You know it madam.'
'I know nothing about you, holy man, except that you are a motherfucking liar. You were the one who provided girls to these two men, so you tell me.'
'Yes madam. I make contact to girls.'
'Did Lele or Suri ask you to get them a fuck last week?'
'Yes madam.'
The fear in Hegde's eyes was overt, like a deer cornered by a pack of wolves. He conceded having taken orders from both Lele and Suri to provide girls to them.
'Which days?'
Hegde looked at the ceiling trying to recollect. After some calculation, he uttered the precise dates. Dates that made Rita and Vikram exchange glances, because those were the dates that Adit Lele and Samir Suri were murdered. So Lele and Suri weren't in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were targeted.
'Now, would you be kind enough to tell us which girl did you send to meet Lele and Suri on those days, Hegde?'
'Oh madam, I not pimp. I take and pass order to someone —'
'Who is that someone? I need a name Hegde. Now.' Rita's subarctic voice left no room for any concessions or debate.
'Malti.'
'Malti? Who Malti?
Ganesh Hegde's phone was confiscated, his, self-proclaimed, best DVD shop in town was closed for the day — recognising the fact that customers would have to make do with the second-best or watch some soap on television. Juhu police, the shop area being in their bailiwick, was called to escort Hegde to the police station for a statement. There was no apparent reason, as of now, to take him into custody, but in light of the name he had revealed, the police couldn't bank on him not divulging this to Malti to forewarn her if he was left on his own. And maybe he knew more than he had spilled out. In which case it was necessary for his security.
'What do you think?' Rita asked when Vikram and she drove out after Juhu Police took Hegde away.
'He's a shrewd guy. He tried to lie first, but recanted when he realised you weren't buying his tripe. Juhu police will make him talk for sure; they know how to make such unscrupulous people spill their foul guts. But I am not sure how much he knows though.'
Smart guy. Interpreting people and reading clues required the same skill set, Rita always believed. And Vikram seemed to have it.
'I have no idea how these filthy businesses run. Can't say how emb
roiled Hegde was in this, but let's hope we get some pointers from him.'
'Let's hope for the best.'
‘Why don’t you take my Gypsy and I’ll call for the duty car tomorrow morning?’ ‘Are you planning to go to Juhu Police Station all by yourself ma’am?’
‘Oh yes, things have started slipping…I am sorry. Why don’t you pick me up at seven tomorrow morning? We can go to the police station together and then go back to Crawford Market.’
‘That will be fine ma’am.’
‘I forgot one more thing. We were supposed to brief Jatin about unclassified information to pass on to Anita Raizada. We need to give them dope to feed the killer’s appetite. My worry is that in absence of anything from us, her idiot boss Narang might use his birdbrain to publish something stupid.’
‘Do you want to call Jatin?’ Vikram peeked at the time on the dashboard. 10:15. ‘Forget it. Let’s give them something tomorrow. Maybe we have some masala-news by the morning…who knows?’
Despite the full moon, clouds had blacked out the night and the moon appeared like a torch burning on weak batteries behind thick curtains. The traffic had eased but Mumbai being Mumbai, there was still rafts of it. Cars, buses, trucks, taxis, auto-rickshaws, scooters, cycles, and — when they turned into residential Bandra — pedestrians. Somewhere amongst these million faces, Rita reckoned, was the face of the killer she was looking for. The trouble was that deviants didn't necessarily appear different. The assailant could very much be a normal nine-to-five office bloke, someone who lived with his family, wife, kids in a respectable neighbourhood, using public transport with a million others in the city and no one would ever guess. The human mind had a wider spectrum than an ocean: the feelings, the emotions, the fears, the reasoning, and, sometimes, the aberrations that misguided the perplexed mind. Agreed that Ash’s interpretation that the killer taking away body parts potentially pigeonholed him as being a loner, but it wasn’t a fact; it was a surmise. Although it might only marginally be better, but, nevertheless still better, if the killer lived with someone and, that someone — whoever it was — could spot some abnormal behaviour and come forward. It was a far-fetched thought, but still a positive one. As far as both the victims were concerned, Lele and Suri were as different as apes from apples in terms of age, addresses, marital status. The only common thread was that they were both males with above average incomes, and knew a DVD rental shop owner, and had sex with hookers. Hardly any connection that.