by Vish Dhamija
It wasn't a banal, everyday situation; hell, it was her first encounter with a serial killer. The investigation so far had found Ganesh Hegde, and the probability of finding the killer, at this moment, was not any greater than crossing the Atlantic in a paper boat.
‘There you are ma’am.’ Vikram’s voice made Rita realise they were parked in front of her apartment block.
‘Thank you so much, Vikram. Can’t offer you dinner, but you’re welcome for coffee.’
‘Thanks ma’am, but I shall rush. Hadn’t told the wife about the delay.’
‘Why didn’t you call her? Drive carefully, and I shall see you tomorrow morning at seven. Good night.’
‘Good night.
Rita changed, took a shower, scrambled a couple of eggs and putting them on toast noshed the sandwich. It was fifteen minutes to eleven. She dialled Ash Mattel’s number.
Ash picked up the phone on the first ring. ‘Hi, missing me Commissioner?’ he bantered.
‘Deputy Commissioner, and I am not missing you. I took a chance, thought you might be asleep by now’
‘Haven’t slept a wink since I saw you, gorgeous.’
‘Did they not teach you better chat-up lines in London?’ ‘Cambridge, I went to Cambridge. What are you wearing?’
‘If you are through with your sleazy one-liners, I wanted to discuss something regarding the case.'
‘Oh…come out with it. Found something?’
Rita narrated the discovery of the common telephone number on the two victims’ mobile phones, meeting Ganesh Hegde, his admission of being a tele-pimp for some woman called Malti, and that he had taken bookings for hookers for the two guys on their respective fateful nights.
‘See,’ Ash sounded excited. 'I told you there would be something common which might form some pattern. I am not saying this Malti woman or some boyfriend of hers is the murderer, but I am confident it might give you some pointer that should give your investigation some direction.'
‘Hmmm…not sure how at the moment, but we’ll see tomorrow. By the way, if you’re free tomorrow afternoon, we could catch up.’
‘I could come tonight if you want.’
‘Ash, stop it.’ Rita was surprised that her voice didn’t sound annoyed. Was she beginning to like his cheesy flirting?
‘I am not free tomorrow afternoon, but I can meet in the evening. Dinner?’ ‘Sure thing. Give me a call when you’re free and we shall meet. Good night.’
‘Good night sweetheart, dream about me.’
Juhu Police grilled Hegde regarding the murders. He wasn't a suspect yet, but hadn't been ruled out as one either. And though he claimed that he merely passed information to some woman called Malti, it did not absolve him of any other involvement. Hegde's story could well be bunkum, rendered on the spot to save his skin when he got cornered. In any case, everyone lied even when they knew for certain that there was little chance of escaping, probably, only to postpone the retribution or humiliation, to save face for the moment. Hegde could certainly bolt if not watched. And what if there was no Malti? There wasn't one for the police till they actually got to her.
Hegde succumbed to the police questioning. In some other circumstances, like a minor offence, he would have paid his way through the mess, but this was different on two accounts. It was murder, and if that wasn't critical enough, since the enquiry was run by the Crime Branch, the local lower-ranking hafta taking cops were rendered helpless. When provided with no alternative, Hegde — perhaps to clear himself — detailed the intricacies of the illicit prostitution racket that plagued Mumbai. Girls were, of course, available all around the city and catered to every pocket. Most men with money had some sort of social obligation — business, family, partners, electorate, customers — and their pretentious façade could shatter if their associates knew they hired hookers. That was where unassuming intermediaries like Hegde stepped in; the prospective whore-seekers contacted people in unrelated trades who took bookings and relayed the messages for a commission. Thus, if in any eventuality something could be traced back, it would only lead to a DVD rental store and not to some house of ill repute.
Unfortunately, Lele and Suri hadn't been caught simply with their pants down, they had been killed and the ripples of murder had compelled the police to dig deeper than usual.
Hegde confessed he was, in fact, a commission agent for two clubs, but on these two instances Malti was the one he had passed on the clients. No amount of coercion by police yielded any information on who the top dog of the outfit was. Hegde wasn't privileged enough to know that. He dealt with Malti or Julie — the other club's Madame — who were the managers of the businesses.
No, he had never met Malti or Julie or even knew where either one operated from. One Mr Kalia had contacted him many years previously. No, he had never met him again, didn't know where Kalia was now; it had been a one-off meeting. Only verbal agreement and phone numbers were exchanged.
Describing Mr Kalia wasn’t possible. Hegde wasn't the first witness who was unable to describe a person. Many witnesses failed even if they have met a person several times and after having had a good look at the person; Hegde, to be fair, had met Kalia once, years ago.
Based on the number of clients Hegde passed to either club in a month, he received his commission in cash in a single-sealed envelope, dropped into his shop after closing hours, which indicated that either the two clubs were controlled by the same person or group or they shared the courier. But, he had never bothered to ask Malti or Julie. Why should he care?
Juhu Police was convinced Hegde wasn't involved in the murders, but he might have inadvertently abetted the acts. However, there was no evidence to suggest that Lele and Suri died because they had sought girls through Hegde; that Hegde's telephone number was the only apparent commonality did not, in any way, suggest there wasn't another overlap that the police hadn’t yet discovered.
DCP Rita Ferreira had instructed Juhu Police to merely obtain information from Hegde, but not to approach Malti or whoever under any circumstances. And as such, all they had now were names of two women and their pay-as-you-go mobile numbers, which, when checked, the mobile operator had no addresses for. Their request to the mobile operator to track these people by their mobile telephone co-ordinates was courteously declined: “It requires a Court Order.”
With no addresses and possibly fake names, how could anyone even start the search for two women in the Mumbai-haystack of eighteen million homo sapiens?
FOURTEEN
1990
The Berlin Wall had fallen a year back, but the Russians or Americans hadn't built a road from this bordello in Bombay to Moscow. Glasnost had been a lazy word; it came to the forefront, into a meaningful existence, long after Viviane had any aspirations left to escape. Jay Desai — she had named her son after the father — was four years old. Pathak agreed to let the boy live in his mother's tiny room, and stay there if his being in the room didn’t offend the clients while they humped Viviane, not realising that weirdos cherished fornicating with the mother in the presence of the son.
Junior — as he had come to be known in the whorehouse — matured faster than other boys his age. The young eyes, in despair, witnessed his mum on the job, being balled up by strange men, in deviate ways; each indelible mark being recorded inadvertently in the infantile mind.
In a few years, Junior would understand things, ask questions, throw tantrums, maybe even resist tricks coming in; Pathak was edgy. He made it clear to Viviane: “Two more years and the guy goes to Moscow or to some orphanage.”
It was a chilling thought, but Viviane, in time, understood that he was right. Did she want her son to watch various degenerates — sometimes up to four or five in a day or night stripping his mother, degrading her? An orphanage wasn't the best solution, but Moscow wasn't even an option. Who would the boy go back to? Her drunken father? The way he used to drink — would he be still alive, somewhere? Where? And supposing that he was alive, what would the boy go back and say — my m
other is a high-class whore, ergo I have come to live with you? And though she loved Junior, and had loved his father enough to carry the child, she realised her mistakes — of falling in love, of having a baby. But even a mug could be an Einstein with the benefit of hindsight. Too late, Viviane.
It wasn't the immediate concern of sending the boy to the orphanage that bothered Viviane: in fact, that would be better as he would get some education, social skills, have a life. It was the long-term consequences that troubled her — the what ifs: what if, when he grew up and found out his mother was alive — and a hooker — and he was forced to live in an orphanage? What if he never found out about his mother, wouldn't she lose him forever? Margaret was there to support. However, what did Margaret know? She wasn’t the mother; she could never have the same feelings for Junior.
If Viviane had a crystal ball, she would know she didn’t need to fret. Kismet was doing the thinking for her.
It wasn't the first time, but it was rare in case of Viviane than others in the house. Pathak discouraged clients to take Viviane out. Who would look after the little bastard? But, this was business. If a patron insisted on a girl, and insisted on taking her out or calling her to his place, she had to go. The son could watch any of the other tarts — though only Margaret allowed him into her room — getting shagged or sit in the anteroom with the pimps.
That call on a cold January evening wasn't for Viviane. It was a debauched henchman of a local politician looking for Jenny — another girl — who was, unfortunately, booked elsewhere. The loaded patron was looking for a petite, fair-coloured piece for the night at his Worli residence. Viviane fitted in.
A fawn faux leather cinch belt gave her an attractive shape, emphasising the narrow waist, accentuating her breasts and derrière. The rest of the short, black clinging chiffon dress hardly required imagination. The tan knee-highs, and that short dress, unmistakably with nothing underneath — the pervert had insisted — labelled her: I am a hustler. Viviane, hardened with time in the profession, was unfazed, unafraid, unashamed of being a high-class — whatever determined class in their profession? — hooker.
Pathak had drivers for home delivery of pieces. Thapa — the Nepalese driver in mid- fifties, five-feet six, and henna-coloured hair with pockmarks on his face — was ugly and daunting. He whistled as Viviane sat in the car.
'I am saving rupee,’ he said in an eclectic mix of English, Hindi and Nepalese. 'For?'
'To ride you once. Pathak bhai told me he will give big discount.'
Viviane smiled. She had never heard of Pathak giving any employee a discount on a girl. And none dared to touch any girl without his permission.
It was nearly 7 p.m. when Thapa drove Viviane to the Worli Sea Face residence, opened the door for her to climb out from the car, like a gentleman and winked as she passed him, filling his nostrils with her perfume and stirring his loins. She smiled, winked back.
Pointless, he told himself. Aloud, he said, 'I see you here at nine tomorrow morning missy. Give the guy good time.'
Viviane pressed the buzzer on the ground floor and waited for entry into the building. Someone must have watched her from the flat on the first floor, she reckoned, to unlatch the main entrance to the block without quizzing. She decided against the small elevator and took the two flights to the first floor. The black lacquered door opened the moment she got in from of it.
'Good evening, Mr Kumar.'
'Come on in,' the client said, closing the door behind him.
Raja Kumar was a forty-three-old stinking rich pervert. Twice divorced, both times on grounds of promiscuity. His first wife of three years paid a sleuth after being tipped off by a common friend, and Sherlock came back within a week with a comprehensive report on Kumar with photographic evidence of him and two women in a threesome. Kumar settled the case by paying an undisclosed amount — large enough to quieten his wife. His second wife accidentally walked in on him and his friend with a floosie engaging in rubber and latex. This case, too, did not go to trial. Kumar did another out-of-court settlement, parting with heaps of cash again, but he still had enough left from what his father had left him. Realising no wife could stay young forever, and he having a predilection for young girls, Kumar decided to stay single. He wasn't romantic, brainy or brawny — a rather nondescript man with a mousy face on a thin balding head, but he was politically connected, loaded, and neither minded paying for his trysts nor cared for who he shagged as long as she was young and pretty. And Viviane was pretty-pretty.
Kumar was undressed and in a dressing gown, sipping some spirit. 'I'm Raja.'
Educated accent. Quite a contrast from what Viviane had heard in the car. Ready to fuck already, she wanted to ask, but heard herself saying. ‘Hi Raja, I'm —'
'Shhh...I don’t need to know your name. Drink?'
'Gin and tonic, please.'
Apartment was a misnomer for this Worli Sea Face residence. It was a palace. She walked behind him from the broad hallway into the living room that housed a bar in the far corner. The ostentatious décor, probably by some interior designer, had a certain lack of something, the lack of a womanly touch that could make it a home. Kumar's taste was very apparent: oils on walls: nude, sculptures in bronze and marble: nudes; some tasteful and pleasant, others blatant and crass, even obscene.
He walked to the bar as she stood gaping at the size of the room with high ceilings that held a huge chandelier with pieces of crystals at the ends that looked like melting icicles, each reflecting a tiny rainbow at some wall of the room, blissfully unaware he had slipped some pill in her drink. He came back with drinks in both hands and gave one to her.
'You ready for the night?' She nodded, took a sip. 'Strip for me baby.'
Viviane looked around for something to keep her glass on, but he held out his hand and took it from her.
'Wow. Baby — change of plan,' he said when she was stark naked.
Viviane looked up inquiring with her eyes, taking the drink from his hand and taking a large sip.
'Finish it. Let me get you another one and then I'll tell.' His empty hand was on her buttocks now.
Halfway through the second drink, she felt a bit drunk. No, she was dizzy. 'You making strong drinks Raja. What is the plan?'
'You ever had a gangbang?'
She had sped through her second drink and with fear in her eyes, she uttered a weak no. She knew she should run. But it was too late.
'Good. It's a first time for you then.' He grabbed her hair and pulled her closer to him. From the far-reaching angle of her eye, Viviane saw four guys hastily undressing, like sharks who had scented blood. They walked into the room and circled around her.
Viviane was kicked out of the flat, literally, like a toy discarded by rich brats at nine in the morning. Thapa was alertly looking at the door when it opened. He saw Viviane, shaken. She was a mess, and seemed to have aged a decade in the night. She saw the blur of the parked car through a cascade in her brimming eyes, but there wasn't any reaction. She found it impossible to focus; the drug, the alcohol and pain were overpowering. She tried to hold on to the baluster to climb down the last two steps to the car, but tripped and fell forward. Thapa had figured she needed support and rushed in time to hold her.
'What happened missy? You OK?' He picked her up and carried her to the car. 'Want me to go in and —'
She held his hand. Tears flooded down her face, some tricked into the mouth, others ran down her neck. She shook her head. ‘No.’
'Tell me what happened Missy.'
'Do me a favour, will you?'
'Anything.' The man was choking with emotion. 'Take me to a police station please.'
'You serious? Think what Pathak bhai will say.'
'Please,' Viviane said with trembling lips. 'I'll do anything you want later.'
He smiled. Smiling has been so well ingrained in our disposition it is sometimes involuntary. No wonder it expressed good, evil, sadness, happiness, lust, truth and lies. Thapa smiled as a realisation of his
lecherous comment the night before, not at the thought of seducing Viviane.
'Okay missy, sit tight.'
Thapa got fired after being beaten up by Pathak’s men for his reckless decision of not consulting Pathak bhai before he took Viviane to the police. It meant Pathak would have to shift many women out of the place immediately — some were underage, some illegally in the country — and be prepared for an enormous cash outflow.
Margaret pleaded, other girls argued, Pathak threatened when Viviane wanted to press gangrape charges. A hooker raped? It would be a mockery of Viviane and spell doom for Pathak. But Viviane was determined; she had some Desai money stashed, and decided to spend it on bringing Kumar and his friends to justice. Justice? She didn’t care what the consequences might be; she was nauseated recalling what the five men had done to her the night before. She didn't want it ever to happen again, not even to any other girl.
FIFTEEN
2007
From the corner of her eye, Rita spotted a lean figure, draped in white from top to bottom that shone in stark contrast to the dark night, dart across and disappear before she could take a careful look. She suddenly became aware she was by herself on this wet tree-lined road, which she couldn’t recognise. There were, thankfully, a few cars on the pavement that showed the place to be inhabited. The figure in white, she concluded, must have surreptitiously sneaked behind one of the thick tree trunks. It was a strange place, eerie in a way, and she couldn't remember, at all, why she was here. Oddly, now the figure in white fluttered much ahead of her; then it was almost twenty trees ahead of her. How?
They say one never dreams in deep sleep.
The telephone ring transported Rita from her nightmare into the tangible world.