by Vish Dhamija
All relationships are mutable by nature, she now knew. You are permitted to believe otherwise at your own peril. There will always be spillages of memory now and then, but let them not dictate your decisions or future. Move on Rita. You're not making any sacrifices; you're liberating yourself. And then, Ash Mattel, her buddy, the criminal psychologist buddy who had helped her in cracking the serial killer earlier was travelling to India next month. Cheers! With that pleasant thought she went into the kitchen, broke two eggs, scrambled them, put them on toast and called it a night.
***
Dawn was unfolding but the sun seemed to be on a late shift; no signs of it yet when Rita went for a jog. Mumbai, after a three-month sabbatical is easy to dislike at first glance — the cloying traffic, the unruly crowd, the stifling humidity and heat, but having lived in the city before Rita appreciated that it was even easier to fall in love with Mumbai and the people when you spent a few days in it again.
For some years now, fitted shirts and jeans were Rita's usual attire at work. And for a reason: she didn't have to be in uniform and she found any other outfits a little uncomfortable for the job she was in. She had got her hair cut shorter — it sat just on her shoulders, instead of falling down over them like before when she tied it into a ponytail sometimes — after the incident where a criminal she was chasing had grabbed her by the soft straight coffee brown tresses. On the way out she carried her powder blue cotton jacket to cover the Smith & Wesson she knew she'd get back when she resumed office later. She ran her fingers through her hair. Short. It was still long enough to be gripped but surely not accessible from arm's length.
Kuldeep was already waiting for her when she came down from her apartment.
Mumbai Police HQ is in the vicinity of a historic landmark called Crawford Market, and it is where the top brass of Police and the Crime Branch are stationed. The travel from Bandra was about thirteen kilometres but it took them forty-five minutes to get there. The Mumbai traffic had snarled up in the torrential rain that had started in the early hours of the morning. The pluvial waters of July had filled the potholes to the brim. Arrogant rain was still sheeting down like Arjuna's arrows and showed no intention of stopping. Its continuous thundering drops on the windshield sounded like a rap singer on steroids; the wipers struggled to keep it clear, but Kuldeep soldiered on. Rita mused as the car moved tardily through the traffic. Mumbai, she discerned wasn't so different from Delhi as the media screamed at every given opportunity. In fact no city was different from the other: the rich in their chauffeur-driven cars, the not so rich struggling in the weather on their bikes and scooters or on foot. There was, and always would be, without exception, an invisible line between the wealthy and those who aspired to be. Of course, you could win the lottery and cross over to the other side, but the not so fortunate inchoately existed on the sides largely because the fortunate needed them. Who else would clean their houses, run the laundry, repair their cars and bring their newspapers or milk or take their kids to school?
Lost in her thoughts she didn't realise when they arrived at their destination. Her reverie broke when Kuldeep opened the rear door for her to climb out.
'Thanks,' she said before walking into the building. A familiar opera of the usual office noises greeted her: photocopiers, telephones, mobiles, clacking keyboards and people talking. A lot of people went hush-hush. Most people working in the building knew her. Those in the vicinity exchanged hellos and pleasantries. Fifteen minutes after entering the building she finally took the elevator to her office.
As she was in early, none of her team — the old team she commanded — were in yet. With her cafetière not having been plugged in for months, she picked up a coffee from the nearest vending machine and hurried to Vinay Joshi's office on the floor above.
Vinay Joshi, Joint Commissioner Mumbai Police, and the Head of Crime Branch wasn't as submissive as he appeared or led people to believe, which Rita had only discovered after dealing with him on the previous case. He let people around him believe they were in-charge, but there was no mistaking him for a teddy bear. He delegated authority to his immediate subordinates but that did not mean he relinquished his responsibility. Gentle and balding, he could easily play Hergé's Professor Calculus in the next Tintin film. The only apparent difference was that Joshi was a lot taller than his caricatured twin.
'So, how's DCP Ferreira doing?' he started nonchalantly, getting up from behind his desk and walking up to Rita to shake her hand after she was done with her saluting. 'At ease, Rita.' He had always alternated between calling her Rita or DCP Ferreira depending on what he fancied that moment.
I'm good sir, thanks. How are you?'
'We're all fine. Although we missed you. Honestly.'
Missed me? Really? Or was it the cold case that made you miss me?
'It's good to have you back and not working on anything, or else Commissioner Saxena would have asked me for a favour and would have even issued a diktat for you if you had been involved in anything else at the moment.'
'What case is it, sir?'
'Though Commissioner Saxena would have liked to brief you personally, he isn't in today so, unfortunately, you'll have to listen to my mundane voice.' Joshi attempted humour at times. 'He's keen that you get involved in an international investigation. There was a larceny-cum-homicide in Brussels a few months back, and the investigators there believe the perpetrator is in India. In Mumbai.'
'Why me?'
'You are our best detective, India's best detective, and it's only right that you should be the one taking up this special challenge.'
So, if I fail it's me; if I succeed you're the sponsor? Clever, Sexy. Great move.
'Do you see any issue, any problems with the case?'
'Do I have a problem? Not at all sir. It's an honour that Commissioner Saxena and you have confidence in me to take up a challenging assignment.'
'But...?'
'But what sir?'
'No, I could subtly foresee a “but” coming from the tonality, even though you have verbally accepted the offer. So tell me, what bothers you about the case?'
'Murder investigation — you know this more than I do, sir — is like snow on a steep slope of time. Even if you've lost forty-eight hours, all you find is nothing, and you just mentioned that the murder happened a few months ago?'
'A little over three months ago to be precise, but that ism is for amateurs. You see Rita, I like you because you remind me of a younger me, taking up new challenges. I can see we're cut from the same fabric, as they say.'
Rita swallowed hard, and nodded. Was she being set up for disaster? But, why would Sexy — that was what Commissioner Sanjay Saxena was referred to in absentia, not derisively, just for fun: Sexy — or Joshi do that? It wasn't that she in any way threatened them. On the contrary, in the months following the apprehending of the infamous serial killer, Sexy had been her foremost patron. He supported her on almost everything. Why would he, then, push her towards failure now? And why would Joshi second that.
'It's a significant case, if you solicit my advice. It bestows on you exposure to an international case — many of us here never got the opportunity — and though this is no democracy, which allows candidates to accept or decline cases, for you if you want to relinquish... because of your recent recovery, trust me it shall not be taken as insubordination.' Joshi's tone wasn't didactic like a supervisor; it wasn't even cautionary, it was advisory.
'It's just that I wasn't expecting a significant case so soon after a break. Of course, I'll take it.'
'That's my bo…girl.'
As a woman in what has, around the world, always been a man's job, Rita was accustomed to being referred to as a boy/man. Joshi had, at least, graciously corrected himself.
'When do I start?'
'Monday.'
Rita hadn't cared about the days during her long break; she took her a moment to think what day it was. It was Friday.
'You mean…'
'Yes this coming Mon
day. Some detective is coming over from Brussels to brief us, and I want you to be present from the start.'
'Yes sir.' Rita hunched up to move.
'Are you in a rush?''
'No sir, I thought this was it. I'm sorry.' She parked her arse back in the chair.
'Your usual team, Vikram and Jatin will report to you. At this stage we are not sure who else will be required but we'll get more team members as and when needed. You report to Mr Saxena directly. I'll be here if you require any help with the bureaucracy, and I'll instruct the uniformed police to provide all back up and assistance. Commissioner Saxena and I have no hesitation that you'll be successful again, DCP Ferreira.'
'Thank you for your confidence sir. But, as they say, you've got to roll the dice to see the results.'
'I know you can roll the dice better than most. Any questions?'
'None whatsoever sir, thank you.'
'All the best Rita. I'm not in the office tomorrow, but feel free to call me on my mobile if you have any questions. Commissioner Saxena had to take a day off today for something important, but he'll be back in the office next week.'
Sexy taking a day off meant he was booked on the golf course. Sexy on the golf course meant he was playing with someone who fitted the who's-who list. He was a suave politician in uniform, a scratch golfer. Rita had no doubt he would brag about lending one of his protégé to an international case, as no one else had the talent. To use a word from his own advanced lexicon, he would be vainglorious at its sparkling best.
***
When Rita returned to her office one of her man Fridays was seated on the visitor's side of her desk. Senior Inspector Vikram Patil, in his mid-thirties, was Rita's next in command. He had more experience in the police but was lower ranked because he was a State Police cadre. Taking Rita's position, when she moved or got promoted, was his aspiration, and with the mettle he had shown in the last few years it wouldn't be a wrong or unreasonable replacement. Though not as sensuous, he was fit, six-foot-one, muscular and agile.
'Welcome back, ma'am.' Vikram stood up. Saluted.
'Thanks Vikram. How have you been?'
'I'm fine, ma'am. Good to have you back.'
'So what are you currently working on?'
'Nothing consequential, just paperwork on my previous case and some court hearings.'
'Good. Whatever it is that you need to complete, please finish that or hand it over to someone. We have an important case. Where's Jatin?'
Jatin was her other go-to direct report. She had a brusque parting with him due to circumstances, but later, in retrospect, he had appreciated the reasons. He had called Rita while she was in Goa and insisted he still wanted to work for her and be in her team.
'He's on vacation, ma'am. He's back on Monday. What's this case that you know of, already, and I have no inkling yet?'
'A homicide in Belgium. The murder happened some months ago and they — the Belgian Police — have found evidence that makes them think that the perpetrator/s are in Mumbai, so they are here on Monday for a briefing. We'll take it from there.'
'Is that all?'
'Unfortunately, that's all I know at the moment.'
'OK. I'll get things sorted before Monday then, ma'am. And I'll send someone to clean and fill your coffee machine.'
'Is my caffeine withdrawal so apparent?' she retorted. 'Anyway, get the Operation Room ready please.'
The Operation Room was set up for any case that the crime squad handled. Over time as the case progressed it became a repository of all evidence, information and the assigned place for team meetings.
***
Before leaving the office, Rita signed for and examined a Smith & Wesson. It wasn't the one she had deposited before going on leave. She got a 2213 Compact. Small, not something that had a harsh recoil, but effective. Not brand new. Not a rusted one either. Picking up the gun wasn't challenging, but she knew she had to get to the firing range to try out the new gun. She could never trust a firearm she hadn't fired. No one in the police or armed forces did. You didn't want a surprise when you least expected it. Rita made a note of calling up to book the practice range and go there as early as she could, possibly over the weekend.
The Belgian detective who came to Mumbai on Monday morning — Victor De Smet — was anything but the legendary Hercule Poirot though he had the girth and the accentuated gait of the fabled character. Remove Poirot's moustache and add a head full of straight blond hair parted on the side and that was Victor. He was pleasant to look at and he spoke softly and carefully in his accented English. He met Rita and Vikram in the newly set up Ops Room. Jatin was still not in the office; he had sent a message apologising as his flight from Dubai had been delayed therefore he would only be in after lunch. Handshakes, introductions, a bit of pleasantries exchanged, and the three got down to business.
Ron Jogani, Victor informed, was carrying diamonds of undisclosed value — certainly more than the receipt the police found in his hotel room — and was murdered. His corpse, cold and still unclaimed, lay in a Belgian morgue. Despite numerous efforts made through the Indian Embassy in Brussels, no one had come forward to collect it. Ron Jogani, apparently, didn't have any family: no parents, no siblings, no partner. His ex-wife had belligerently declined all requests; she didn't want anything to do with “Ron” — whether dead or alive. The identification of his corpse hadn't been carried out by his kin, which is the standard legally accepted procedure around the world; the documents found in his hotel room had established his identity. The Belgian police had diligently investigated Leonard Aaron — the Antwerp merchant who had sold the diamonds that cost Jogani his life, and the driver who dropped Jogani at the hotel. Both had been cleared.
Jogani's autopsy report held little surprise unless one's curiosity extended to what beers and sandwiches he had savoured before he perished. Death was by a close range shot. End of.
Victor paused for the Indian detectives to digest all he had narrated. 'In the initial stages of the investigation we were certain someone on the inside — I mean the hotel staff — was involved, it had to be. There seemed no other way. I mean how else could someone circumvent the whole security cameras, know about Jogani's booking in the hotel? The room numbers are normally allocated on the morning the guest is supposed to check-in. And the killer or killers knew the room number before Jogani arrived at the hotel. They had access to his room key. They intercepted the telephone line to make the midnight call to Jogani look like it came from reception. But we found diddlysquat, and we checked out the entire hotel staff... every single one of them was interviewed, investigated and cleared. We just don't know how it could have happened.' Victor raised both his hands animatedly in despair.
Rita waited till he stopped. 'Somehow the crime scene does not add up to a premeditated killing. Of course, the perpetrator or perpetrators knew about the diamonds — why else would someone break into a hotel room of all places? — but cold-blooded murder is an altogether different crime. Most human beings do not plan to kill another unless there is an agenda.'
'Then why murder Jogani?'
Rita had anticipated the question.
'At the end of the runway the pilot only has one choice — unless of course, he wants to commit suicide and take all passengers down too — and that option is to go airborne. If Jogani had seen the killers or intercepted them, they had no option but to off Jogani.'
'Interesting way to put it,' Victor said.
'But it's still a theory and it's still one big if...' Rita surmised. 'But then, all investigations have to begin with a theory. In time the theory could be proved correct. Then again maybe the evidence could cite that the direction was totally wrong. But we need to start somewhere.'
Victor nodded at the rationale.
'So, Mr De Smet…'
'I think we should let go of the formalities. Call me Victor.'
'Likewise Victor.'
'So, how, after over three months and change, did the Belgian police determine that Jogan
i's killer could be in India?'
'Very good question. In fact I was expecting it sooner. We got video footage from the hotel. You see, whoever masterminded this had planned for everything. They froze almost all the hotel cameras connected to the main control room and ran a film that was basically from the night before. When we juxtaposed the two footages they were identical…'
'Then how did you get this footage?' Vikram sounded interested.
'As I said almost all, there was a concealed camera in the elevator that wasn't connected to the control room. In fact even the hotel personnel didn't know about it. But the hotel chain's central office that had implanted it released it to us. We've been analysing it for weeks now. I'm carrying a copy, should we play the footage?' Victor took out a CD from his bag and handed it over to Vikram who put it into the computer and tilted the screen a bit so all three could see.
A camouflaged reminiscence of George Eastman's invention, albeit in moving frames, had done the trick in the elevator. The surveillance camera was obviously placed high and most of the shots were a bit blurry, grainy. The time count on the camera proved the pictures were in the time frame that the Belgian police had ascertained as the time of the murder. The Belgian police had done a professional job of cleaning it up, zooming and enlarging to make one perfect 6 x 8 candid-shot from one of the frames.
However, if you showed the picture to a hundred people only fifty might have agreed that the guy was an Indian.
Rita and Vikram looked at the picture.
A strikingly handsome man from what Rita could see.
A photograph would help in identification. But you've got to find the person first to identify him. Who was it? Rita's mind was already churning.
'Our intelligence — and our government's sincere apologies that we didn't follow protocol and carried out investigation without proper authorisations from the Indian government initially — has not been able to track down the individual, and hence we need your help. Our experts estimate the person in these photographs to be male, height 6'2 or 6'3”, about a 100 kilograms, a head full of straight dark hair — the pictures are too grainy to discern the exact hair colour but who knows if he wasn't wearing a wig?'