Doosra: The Other One

by Vish Dhamija

  All security cameras had been drained of the tapes.

  Similar.

  The high-tech burglar alarm had not been deactivated. Nevertheless the expensive equipment didn't relay the break-in to the security guys like it was programmed to. That meant that the intruder had known the security system of the showroom well enough to somehow intercept the outgoing signal from the alarms. All security alarms worked on a generic principle: the sensors continuously scanned for movement or body heat or whatever they were encoded to. If any of the sensors picked up any unwanted motion, image or change in temperature, the signal was passed on to the main junction box located on site, which, using telephone lines or an inbuilt SIM, transmitted a SOS to the security office. Theoretically, all in real time. And the security personnel would attend the site within minutes. But every Tom, Dick, Harry and their cousins with a computer had been schooled that real time was never real time. There was always a time lag, albeit nanoseconds. But those very nanoseconds are the weakest link in the chain. And the intruder evidently knew that.

  No security is ever fool proof. No technology is ever infallible. It is a common misbelief that all hi-tech gadgets were at the bequest of those who can afford them and deploy them when, in fact, they were at the mercy of those who can hack them. Computer passwords are cracked every day. They have even broken into the Pentagon. By contrast, and with no disrespect to either, how difficult would it have been to crack the security of a jewellery showroom in New Delhi or of a hotel in Brussels? Must be like going for a picnic in a manicured park.

  Dissimilar to the Mumbai heist. Shades of similarity with the heist at Brussels where the gang had shown considerable computer wizardry.

  No human being was hurt. No evidence was left on the scene.

  No one was arrested. Check that. The police did not have a single suspect after fourteen months: exculpatory explanations aside nothing further was found in the files. The case, like many others, was in the deep freezer getting colder by the day.

  Long story short, even if one wanted to overlook the similarities it would positively be difficult to argue there weren't any, and if some ombudsman decided to go after your negligence or deliberate pretermit you would have a harder time explaining than investigating the previous cases in the first place. Anyway, over a fifty percent similarity in the two cases warranted an investigation and Rita opened both the past cases. In her mind there was a common element there. Even if the burglar wasn't the same guy, the brains behind the operations appeared to be; the person or the outfit being sold the stolen diamonds might be. She followed the age-old maxim in police: follow the money.

  Though one couldn't help but marvel at the ingenuity of the Mumbai robbery, what with hiding inside the store while it was closed for business and getting away without leaving a trace, the New Delhi heist was definitely one notch up. It was something straight out of a textbook. The stakes had got higher and the loot had got bigger. And then the Brussels one. All dissimilarly similar. Nevertheless, some things were blatantly unique. Precision. Planning. Timing. Executing. Improvising. Escape.

  Three escapes.

  The Australians call it trifecta: three victories in three.

  Hat trick is how any cricketer would have termed it.

  There was no reason whatsoever to suppose why there wouldn't be a fourth one except for one hitch: Ron Jogani's murder. A murder might not have been accounted for in the original planning. The murder would, they must have been aware, set the hounds and wolves chasing.

  The passengers on the Mumbai-Brussels flight had failed to recognise Sishir Singh in a photo line-up three months post the incident. Was there any point in subjecting the sales staff of a jeweller in New Delhi to the same drill after two years? Rita reluctantly approved the exercise.

  However, no one recognised Sishir Singh.

  Rita parsed all that she had till now. One person could not have reconnoitred any place more than once. You can only visit the place inconspicuously — though even the second time is a massive risk; you go there a third or fourth time and someone will notice you, someone will certainly remember you specially in a closed place like a shop, albeit however large.

  An interesting thing in line with the progression of robberies was that the group's daredevilry was also on the rise. They were getting adventurous. The first heist had been in Mumbai, which, evidently, was home turf. Furthermore, it didn't exhibit any technical proficiency either. The technical wizardry had skyrocketed after the first break-in, and so had the tenacity — taking several days to trench the stained glass dome from the concrete. And success in Delhi must have prompted them to plan an even bigger robbery abroad, in a hotel. Given the loot, Rita wondered where all the cash was now? If the police could get access to accounts, tracing unusually sizeable transactions on certain dates wouldn't be impossible, but how could the police get access to the accounts? But the money, in any event, might not even be in the killer's name. It could well be in an account of a shell company or false name.

  Finding a clue in three robberies might be somewhat easier than one. Sheer probability. But, intuition, however infallible it might appear, could not be substituted for evidence. Rita needed evidence. She had some follow up thoughts and ideas evolving in her mind but nothing concrete.

  The search for the travel agent who booked Ron Jogani's ticket came up empty. Not that anyone had expected otherwise. Someone had to be dumber than dumb to leave an electronic trail if they wanted to do something as ominous as armed robbery. The least they could have done is wipe all trails.

  ***

  Nene had recapped the entire history of Honey Singh and family. His grandfather had been uprooted during Partition; he had arrived in Punjab and set up bicycle parts manufacturing in Amritsar. The next generation — Honey Singh's father — expanded the business manifold. Honey Singh was born in Sri Guru Teg Bahadur Hospital, and his birth was registered in the local municipal office. No, there was no twin, neither identical nor fraternal. And as Honey Singh's father suddenly passed away soon after due to heart failure, there had never been any other sibling. Even if one hyperbolically assumed that his mother had copulated with someone clandestinely and delivered a baby somewhere what were the chances that the baby would grow up looking identical to Honey? Identical stepbrothers? A biological impossibility. Unheard of.

  End of story.

  Rita pondered a bit. Could it be that someone had a fair resemblance to Honey Singh? Nah! Too many coincidences rendered that theory weak, even inutile. The first and the most extraordinary coincidence was that two guys were lookalikes. Second coincidence they were in the same town. Mumbai was a megalopolis of 18 million people and thus, even if the two carbon copies were in the same city, it was more of a miracle than coincidence for one to find the other. Fourth coincidence: the evil guy — Sishir Singh or whoever — spots the simpleton and the simpleton didn't as much as have a clue about it. It was akin to pulling out four consecutive aces from a deck. The probability of the first ace is one in fifty-two: greatly probable. However, the probability of pulling out three more cards and they, too, happen to have a single pip on their faces was twenty-four out of over 6.5 million. Impossible if one also took into account the time frame. The surveillance on Honey Singh had been put in place days after Jogani's murder. So the evil twin did not know about the simpleton before the murder and found him in two days post it? Impossible. It was likely that they knew about Honey Singh already.

  Then there was prosthetics that couldn't be ruled out. All that was needed was two guys who had the same height and similar body contours — merely a slight resemblance, a body double. And any good plastic surgeon worth his degree could perform some reconstructive surgery to make one look like the other. The challenge, in Rita's opinion, was could it be reversed? Would the guy be willing to look like someone else all his life? Or could there be a reversal — meaning the guy could undergo another facial reconstruction to not look like Honey Singh after all this was over. It sounded morose but, in Rita
's experience, people had stretched way out on a limb for money. History was awash with instances of sons killing fathers for money and thrones and territories.

  But where did that analysis lead her besides being just another fact of life? The police couldn't just go around snooping every plastic surgeon in Mumbai or India to check if someone looked like or was made to look like Honey Singh. And what if they even asked everyone that? There was no evidence to believe that the surgery was done inside the country.

  All details of Honey Singh's travels had now been gathered and condensed by Vikram.

  Result: Zilch!

  He did not even have a valid passport; consequently he had never travelled outside India.

  No international telephone calls made whatsoever from any of his listed telephones — mobiles or landlines.

  The day Ron Jogani had been burgled and murdered there was no record of Honey Singh being out of Mumbai. His mobile phone records showed he had called two of his employees, received three calls from another two of them. It was business as usual for him.

  Kitty Varghese was another story. The file did not contain anything on her, which surprised Rita. Kitty was a model, a public figure. As such gen on her should have been a lot easier to gather than her boyfriend. Why had Vikram not put anything in the dossier?

  ***

  The caucus of four sat at the table in the Operations Room.

  The case file — Ron Jogani's murder file was already over two-inches thick — investigator reports, charts, witness statements, map, photographs, evidence collected, or received as in this case, was all in front of them now. Nothing gave.

  'Brilliant work on Honey Singh, Vikram, but I didn't find anything in your report on Kitty Varghese? She being a public figure of sorts, I would have imagined data on her would be easier to get...' Rita questioned.

  'You're correct, ma'am. It was a lot easier to get and far too interesting to sum up in a report so I thought I'd present to you all so we could evaluate it together.'

  Rita could sense that Vikram had some proverbial ace up his sleeve. He had definitely stumbled upon something that could lead them somewhere. She glanced at the other two. Jatin and Nene had similar expressions of heightened expectation: eyebrows hiked up, pupils dilated, body involuntarily attentive.

  'Go on then, give it to us.'

  'During the Belgium escapade, Miss Kitty Varghese was in Germany, in Köln to be precise. She was part of a fashion show group who travelled there. The entire team was hosted in the Hilton Köln that was close to the famous Dom Cathedral. She flew out of India with the group on March 29th and returned with them on April 7th. I haven't dug up further to check if she went missing any night or nights because asking around will definitely get back to her. I thought it best to discuss among ourselves before going ahead.' Vikram paused.

  'Go on… I can see you have more to tell us.' Rita could tell Vikram had a further update.

  'Miss Kitty Varghese was in Mumbai when the burglary at Pedder Road occurred, but that, of course, isn't of much significance considering that she is a Mumbai domicile, but—'

  'But she was in New Delhi when the heist at Zaveri happened,' Rita completed his line.

  'How did you know?'

  'I didn't know that, I just interpreted that. Am I correct?'

  'Yes. She went for a fashion show to Delhi four days before the larceny and returned two days after that.'

  'Couldn't it be a genuine coincidence?' said Jatin.

  'Equally, it could be orchestrated.' Vikram opened the folder he was carrying and passed around Kitty Varghese's pictures.

  Kitty Varghese was a model and she looked every bit like one. Sharp features, high cheekbones, light camel-coloured eyes, thick wavy shoulder-length hair with crimson highlights cut in layers. Her body was fit and in great shape, and could give some of the cheerleaders at IPL matches a run for their money; her face, too, could shame some hot starlets in Bollywood. A head turner surely. She was definitely younger and taller than Rita. Maybe five-nine in sneakers. Together Kitty and Honey made a gorgeous couple. If only they could do something about their collective names, Rita mused. Kitty-Honey.

  Could she be the second person at the Brussels hotel? Rita made a mental note. She couldn't envisage why not. Likewise, she couldn't picture how she could have escaped to Belgium while she was on a tour with others in Germany without being conspicuous by her absence.

  'Vikram — follow it up with Victor in Belgium. They need to tell us if there is any way one could get from Köln to Brussels and back in a night?'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  'What else?'

  'Kitty and Honey were introduced to each other at a party four years ago, which was hosted by Honey Singh's engineering college friend, Veer Singh. He was some kind of an IT guru who migrated to the United States a year later. And then he disappeared.'

  'Disappeared?'

  'From all the friends' radars. There is no known forwarding address for him; none of his supposed friends have any idea where he is now. It's like once Veer Singh went to the US he just disappeared from the face of the earth. Various stories — mostly homemade— still circulate in the friend circle: some believe he took to drugs and was no more, some are convinced he made it big in Silicon Valley and is no longer interested in keeping in touch with old friends out of fear of being pestered to call them to the US too, still others believe he got married to some gori and has become a man of leisure.'

  Rita figured that such tales rarely had any real foundation. It was actually lack of info that prompted friends to conclude some plausible explanation. The truth was that they might never know the truth.

  'The story I got from a source is that three or four months before Veer disappeared, he and Mr Honey Singh had a scrap over something. About what? No one knows. But it was unquestionably something significant. As these two were the main anchors, the whole coterie kind of disintegrated after the misunderstanding or fight — no one actually witnessed what happened, they just know that the friendship ended acrimoniously and the two broke all ties with each other. The parties ended, the clique split because, perhaps, no one wanted to take sides, And later, by the time Veer migrated everyone had moved on, I guess, so it was never the same again. They still meet once in a while, but are not so close to each other anymore.'

  Vikram passed an old photograph of the original group he had wangled out of a friend to Rita who looked at it closely. There were nine people in the picture: five men and four women including Honey Singh, Kitty Varghese and Veer Singh. She noticed that Veer Singh was only marginally shorter than Honey Singh, nothing that a good pair of shoes with some heels could not make up for. And since the photograph wasn't full-length who could argue that Honey Singh wasn't wearing heels in the photograph and that Veer Singh wasn't in flat shoes?

  'Any more information on Mr Veer Singh?'

  'Veer Singh was a mona-Sikh too: another tall cut-surd but besides that, nothing. His parents passed away in quick succession before he finished college. No siblings. Never married. No ex-girlfriend. He lived in a barsaati near Dadar station, but that was obviously vacated over three years ago, so as I said, I drew a complete blank.'

  'So there was unquestionably bad blood between Honey and Veer?'

  'As per my findings, yes.'

  Rita's brain churned. Some clash between friends leading to animosity, vengeance? Or just plain lust, for money and good life, that couldn't care less for old friendship or friends especially after they split up? After all, betrayal wasn't a new word added to the English dictionary: it had been there since the 13th century. Betrayal had been a part of human history since the Advent, hadn't it?

  Another variable had got instated in the already insolvable equation. It seemed like a litany of Singhs.

  Sishir Singh.

  Honey Singh.

  Veer Singh.

  'What do you think?' asked Rita, her gaze flitting from Jatin to Nene and back.

  'Could it be that Veer Singh is the one getting Honey
Singh followed?' Jatin spoke first.

  'That does not any make sense to me. Veer Singh should already know more about Honey Singh than our dear Mr Handlebar Raja could ever dig out, don't you think?'

  'And, as we discussed earlier, if he were involved in the robbery and murder why does he need to follow Honey Singh anymore.'

  'Yes, but…' Rita collected her thoughts. '…If he — or whoever — is planning another heist, it would make sense to keep tabs on the guy they're planning to pin it on, wouldn't it?'

  'You think they could be planning another one?' Nene.

  'They might be, depending on what their endgame is. The pattern shows it has been one robbery a year for the last three years, which means they do some elaborate preparations. Of course, things did not go according to plan in Brussels or maybe it was always agreed upon that in case anyone disrupted their plan that someone would have to be eliminated to continue with the scheme. Indeed, killing is vastly different from robbing, but these guys don't seem the ordinary souls to me who would go to church for a confession before robbing again. My prognosis though is that they might need time to plan better to avoid a situation where they need to kill. But, never say never.'

  'You make a good point, ma'am.' Vikram.

  'We need to find Veer Singh. Let's talk to Interpol to see if they can dig up airline or immigration records in the US. They'll surely have them. Since 9/11 the US is more conscious of security and records than they ever were. The question is how much will the US be willing to share if it shares at all? I'll speak to Victor in Belgium, and also check if our Commissioner has any personal contacts.' The moment the word personal contacts slipped out of Rita's tongue she realised, maybe Ash Mattel had some contacts through his work with Scotland Yard who might in turn know someone in the Federal Government in the States? It was a long shot, but still worth a try. 'Anyone have anything else?'