Bhendi Bazaar

by Vish Dhamija

  None.

  'Everyone leave, except Vikram, who stays with me. And Jatin,' Rita mentioned as they started gathering their papers, 'I need you back by 5 p.m. to brief you to brief Anita. Ask her to meet you in the evening after seven.'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  The call recorded on Rita's phone in the early hours of the day turned out to be from a multiplicative voice scrambler, which meant the speech from the source was split into pieces during transmission and restored at reception to make it impossible for experts to decipher the gender. The caller had exhibited just how far ahead in the game he was; he had access to technology and the ability to use it.

  The call, the experts had worked out, had been made using a roaming SIM on local network. The SIM was from Etisilat, Dubai. Another pay-as-you-go, they had checked. The last usage recorded was: 4:50 a.m., the last known location: Pali Hill, Bandra. So the caller was in the vicinity when he had called Rita. Rita and Vikram knew what the killer had wanted to demonstrate. Knowing well that the police would trace the call location, he had ensured the site was close to Rita's apartment; he could have called from any other location, but he didn't. He didn't consider it a risk. It might have required nerves to carry out something like this, but he didn't care. Actually, it might not have been difficult. Anyone could have sat in the car making that call. Who would know? The killer was now playing with their nerves, testing them, daring them.

  'Is it possible to find out just how many Dubai SIM cards we have in Mumbai?' Rita asked Vikram. It was a rhetorical question. Thousands of such unaccounted-for SIM cards got imported illegally, changed hands and almost equal numbers exited the city or got trashed after some particular job every single day. Who could ever be sure of an image in a kaleidoscope? 'What concerns me actually is the breach of info,' Rita, acknowledging Vikram wasn't responding to her earlier expression, resumed. 'We need to stem the information leak.'

  'You mean at Juhu Station.'

  'That's obvious, but I fear that the seemingly obvious can mislead sometimes.'

  'But no one else knew about it, ma'am.'

  The two exchanged glances, looked towards the ceiling, then at the desk in Rita's office, then looked at each other in silence. Both trying to recall if either had spoken to anyone outside of the police regarding Hegde. Rita had confided in Ash, but... but he was a crime profiler. And her boss Joshi had vouchsafed him. Why would Ash leak the classified info? More importantly, whom could Ash speak to who could know the caller? No, she hadn't spoken about it to anyone else. She parsed her tangled thoughts into something meaningful before opening her mouth. 'Be hard on the Juhu SHO. We cannot afford this happening again.'

  'Yes, ma'am.’ Vikram left.

  Rita sat at her desk, her hands in a steeple with the nails touching her lips. She called Joshi to update him about the case, but his secretary told her he was not in office. She called Ash next.

  'How's the day going, Commissioner?'

  'Deputy —'

  'Arrest me for my mistake?'

  'Ash, did you speak to anyone last night after I told you about Hegde?'

  'Is that a formal interrogation now? Am I a suspect?'

  ‘Don't worry, you don't need a lawyer yet. I'm only ensuring the leak is from Juhu Police Station.' Rita succinctly updated him.

  'Thank God. I am a registered criminal profiler in the UK, Rita. My tongue doesn't slip. Or wag. I don't talk about any cases, past or present, to anyone except to those who require that information to solve them and have the requisite authorisation to seek that info. But in answer to your question, I didn't speak to anyone. Do I pass the litmus test?'

  Rita could picture Ash chuckle through the wires. 'And does your job permit you to take the investigation officer of the case you're working with, out on a date?' Rita balanced the serious conversation by reminding Ash of their dinner date.

  'Only if the investigation officer is also an old college friend, and who is single.'

  'So what would you like to eat tonight?'

  'How about sushi? Do we get sushi —'

  'Do you think this place is still in the Nineties, since you left the country?'

  'Point taken.'

  James Bond could no longer sit in some seaside restaurant and order caviar and make some Indians reach for the dictionary to dig up what it was. Things had changed. For good or bad, who knew? If the good was acceptable to the palate, the bad, the serial killers, were only free sides that one had to swallow.

  'Eight?'

  'Shall pick you up from your office.'

  Anita Raizada was over the moon since she had got the message that Jatin wanted to see her in the evening. For two reasons. The obvious one was that she would finally get the material for the story she was still struggling to start. And secondly, if she had to go to see Jatin, she didn't have to sleep with that swine Narang. That she had not much choice in the matter was now a forgone conclusion; if she wanted this story, which could be career defining, she recognised she'd have to endure Narang’s seduction. With her little experience or any references, it seemed ridiculous to try for another job if she antagonised Narang. That, precisely, was what Narang was exploiting. That and the fact that Anita Raizada was one of prettiest girls he had ever laid his eyes on. Why would he skip the chance of getting laid?

  And though the fight was, by all odds, unequally arrayed, Anita wasn't giving up the struggle. Well, at any rate, not for another day.

  Ash drove Rita home after dinner. 'Want coffee?'

  'Now that you insist.'

  Ash smiled and got down from his car before she changed their mind. Out of the lift on the fourth floor, Rita unlocked her apartment, got in and turned on the lights.

  'Coffee or a small drink?'

  'That will be lovely. What have you got?' ‘Jim Beam.'

  'Go on then. By the way, what made you think I'd speak with someone regarding the case?' Ash asked.

  'I was only wondering…'

  'It's good that you asked. Perplexity is like quicksand; the more you struggle, the more you sink. So now that you have cleared me.' Ash raised the tumbler as a toast; Rita responded with a smile. 'Or, at least, I think you have acquitted me, did you find out how the last evening's events might have leaked to the caller?'

  'Hegde admitted he paid hafta, so I am guessing someone obliged him.'

  'Any idea who that could be?'

  Rita shook her head in disgust.

  'Rita, I am sure the unhinged reciprocate our feelings. They must believe that we are insane.'

  Ash got up from the sofa and sat down on the cushions on the floor. Close to Rita.

  ‘They have a twisted perception of reality. To such people, a small impediment might get magnified to a life-threatening scenario. You are an obstruction in his path and he knows that. As I mentioned before, watch out, he will come for you.'

  'Are you trying to scare me?'

  'Warn you.'

  From where he sat, he could see the light falling on Rita; she looked extremely attractive to him. He felt excitement, giving way to febrility; pleasure and fright coexisting like good neighbours.

  'I am warned.' Rita broke his reverie.

  'Forgot to tell you. I have to cut short my holiday. I need to return to London this weekend.'

  'You mean the day after tomorrow?' Ash nodded.

  'And you’re telling me now?'

  'I didn't know about it till the morning. Got a call, there's this case I am involved with… I’m treating a patient. The guy attempted suicide in prison. I have to return. Sorry.'

  'Will you be coming back any time soon?'

  'If you want me to.'

  Rita kissed him. Forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks, chin, neck, then, on the mouth. There wasn't much conversation; she guided him. The clothes came off sans abnegation. All of them. She was smooth as the day she was born, not a blemish on the skin. The body defied her age. Ash lifted her and took her into the bedroom.

  He left in the morning, promising to stay in touch.

&
nbsp; SIXTEEN

  2007

  It had been three weeks since the second murder. Every search till now had teetered into an impasse, a standstill. Wrong tips, miscarried leads, incorrect conjectures, inaccurate theories, mistaken suspects, failed tell-tales; all attempts had been amiss. It was like being in a room with no doors. Could Rita eke out a victory here? It had, after all, been an unsolved case for the longest time in her career.

  All interview transcripts were read anew, door-to-door canvassing reports reviewed and re-reviewed, scene of crime photographs and accounts re-examined by distinguished homicide detectives across the country to dissect and scrutinise if anything had been missed. Nada. Forensics furnished nothing fresh either. Radiology, odontology, microbiology, pathology and all other “-ologies” failed to provide a single clue. Except toxicology, that had furnished the name of the drug the killer had given to the two victims: Chloral Hydrate. But Mumbai Police, for all its might, had gained nothing on where the drug had been obtained.

  Little thieves are hanged, but great ones escape had become an overused expression in uniformed police circles.

  The source of the leak at Juhu Police Station never got detected. Pity. That was the closest Rita and the team had come to getting a lead. A hunt for inconspicuous tele-pimps like Hegde had unearthed a few men, but all were disregarded. Rita put decoys — plainclothesmen looking for hookers — as part of a sting operation, but got no pointers to Malti or Julie.

  Police wanted hookers, any hooker really — from high-class call girls to those who accosted on streets in Bhendi Bazaar, Colaba and Juhu — to come forward if they knew either Lele or Suri. Or Malti or Julie. They were reluctant for obvious reasons. No one wanted to get entangled in the mess, least of all hookers. Who wanted to get involved with an insane killer on the one hand and Mumbai Police on the other? And if a hooker's involvement with the police got out, how would they get any business? Tricks paid for privacy, not publicity.

  A fresh stab at motives brought in nothing new. The backgrounds of Lele and Suri were checked again. Besides the fact that both men had been involved with hawala and hookers, and both had called Hegde before their murders, the search fetched nix. The mounting pressure of the yet unsolved murders was pushing Rita over the brink.

  The police brought in all sexual deviants and murderers, including those acquitted for lack of evidence. Annals showed numerous cases where the killer had been released, by mistake or for dearth of testimony, and then gone on to kill a few more before being apprehended. Their whereabouts on the nights of murders were questioned; any corroboration, all alibis were verified. Nothing turned up. They widened the gyre to search; maybe the guy was never arrested for sexual deviance or offence, but on account of something else. Over three thousand interviews were carried out. Still nothing. The flagged map of Mumbai produced no result: first murder in Versova, second at ITC Grand Maratha.

  Tongues had started wagging. It seemed that the media had an encyclopaedia of statements against the police — the speed at which they delivered their opinionated stories to the public. Besides, rhetorically, stating the obvious and getting riled at the lack of progress, every damn paper in the country had, especially, named Rita, at least twice.

  "Was she the right choice?" questioned one of the dailies.

  Another leading daily ran: "Waning perspicacity of Mumbai's best detective."

  That worried Rita. Narang, the idiot, had awarded her the moniker of the best, but it sounded more a taunting epithet than praise now. And why wasn't she told when she was the best? Why, now, when she was failing? The résumé swelled until all was hunky dory and blooming, and till she kept cracking cases. Then, one failure and, like in any other profession, she knew the career could end abruptly. And God bless her if she flunked in a high-profile job like a multiple homicide. The upside was that she would no longer require a résumé because the rags would ensure no one employed her. Cops were trained not to prepare themselves for the best-case scenario. Rita was, after all, a cop. Though she had risen up several ranks, moved from uniform division and now Deputy Commissioner, she was still, decidedly, a cop. What had she expected? It had been three weeks and — forget making an arrest — they didn't have a single suspect. Scattered thoughts bothered her. She had been unsuccessful at arranging the pieces of info, much of it was missing still. There was no simple answer. There was no coherent, logical, analytical answer. There was no answer. Period.

  And the delay in answers could very well mean another murder.

  Surprisingly, though, the murderer had lain dormant for three weeks. Was this, as experts articulated, the cooling off period between the murders that the serial killers usually took to plan the next murder? Or was it just that this particular killer had encountered guilt and called off after just two? He hadn't made any contact with NEWS of the DAY or any other newspaper. There had been no more calls to Rita. At Rita's instructions, Inspector Jatin Singh had regularly drip-fed unclassified information to Anita Raizada to keep the killer satiated.

  Anita Raizada had laboriously covered the tidings all along, released to her by Jatin, and reported information as often as Rita decided. The killer, if he was still in Mumbai, and if he was still interested in the news of his conquests, would have smirked every morning.

  However, he didn’t communicate with NEWS of the Day or Narang.

  But, Anita, having been favoured by the wolf, had had to return the favour. It hadn't been a pleasant evening.

  Anita had been working late for the next morning's edition when Narang called her to his office.

  'Close the door,' he said, his eyes bloodshot. 'Drink?'

  He opened the drawer and pulled out a bottle of Smirnoff.

  'I’ve got loads to do,' Anita blurted before he could fill a glass for her.

  'Sit. That can wait. The killer doesn't seem to be interested in the news anymore.

  Neither is the public. What's the rush, we can print it in the next edition.'

  Narang got up from his chair and walked up to the door of his office, bolted it and pulled down the blinds.

  'What are you —' She abruptly got up and turned around to leave.

  'Shhh…' He had clasped his arms around her, his hands finding their way to her buttocks to press them against him. 'We had an agreement, didn't we?'

  'But, today…'

  'What's wrong with today?'

  'I'm having my periods Amit.'

  The annoyance in Narang's eyes was frightening. He turned, rested against the desk and unbuttoned her shirt. The bra came off next. He whistled before he sunk his teeth into her breasts. Then, with one hand, he yanked Anita by her hair and pushed her down to kneel in front of him.

  ‘You know what to do.' He unzipped his fly and pulled out his penis. He didn't wait for her to react; he just pushed it into her mouth. 'Suck it baby. And look at me while you suck it.' He held her head firmly against his thrusts.

  Anita detached her brain from the physical humiliation she endured. Someone, somewhere, in the past had done this. And paid for it.

  Narang, she swore, would pay too.

  Dusk and doubt had concluded Rita's day at work. She had consciously given Jim a wide berth the last few weeks. Drinking when drowned in a problem — she had seen that all too closely. It had happened to her father when business had started to go down; the way he had taken to the bottle and never regained his sanity. Rita had seen the blank stare in her mother's eyes, experienced the unrelenting sad evenings. She was sensible enough to understand the repercussions of going down that road.

  Her sleep — or the lack of it — was a constant reminder that she gave more than required. But, that was Rita. Some things you couldn’t change in a cop. More significantly, you couldn’t change the elements in a personality.

  Rita and Joshi were on time for the 8 a.m. meeting with the Commissioner in his large office. Surely, Sexy would have referred to it as a commodious office rather than large. Or maybe prodigious? Sexy, however, hadn't arrived; the Commis
sioner wasn't the one who’d wait for his reports; they could wait.

  And they did.

  Tea arrived. Anyone waiting in the Commissioner's office, and it didn't matter if they had come to get their carrot or the stick, got served tea. There wasn't much choice in that. The Commissioner drank tea and everyone who ever visited him had to drink it. As the duo sat and sipped their teas, both knew what this meeting had been called for.

  The Chief Minister of Maharashtra was a very powerful man. Correction. The CM of the state of Maharashtra was always a powerful man. Whatever happened in Mumbai had international implications. It was the commercial capital of India. If you wanted to destroy India, you had to destroy Mumbai. The world knew it. The Prime Minister knew it.

  Obviously, the Chief Minister of the state knew it. The money the city generated filled national coffers; if Mumbai were a country, it would be a small and prosperous one, despite its population. Add to it the income from an abundance of industry throughout the rest of the state. Besides, with the current Central government standing on crutches of coalition, the state was a powerhouse. Hence, when some millions went missing because Samir Suri got killed before he could deliver them, the CM’s office naturally demanded answers. The CM's PA, under the pretext of public service, had been exerting undue pressure on the Commissioner.

  The CM wanted an answer.

  The CM's PA needed an answer.

  The Commissioner demanded an answer.

  The meeting, Joshi and Rita knew, wasn't going to be painless.

  The Commissioner of Mumbai Police arrived at twenty past the hour in mufti: grey suit, crisply creased, white shirt, no tie. Polished moccasins.

  He did not offer any apologies for his delay. Ideally, he would have preferred to have a one-to-one with Joshi, but the smooth-tongued man had once again persuaded his boss to meet Rita along with him. "She's the one who has the most insights," he had said. If Sexy had a choice, he would have insured that Rita be put behind a purdah.