by Vish Dhamija
Honey Singh number two had arrived at the scene when Honey Singh number one was still in the office, and he went in. Where did he go? He must have hidden somewhere outside the complex till he saw the other one leave? But how did he know that the real Honey Singh would leave the office at the time and day he went there? That didn't need too much explanation: if Honey Singh number two was actually Handlebar's mystery client then Rita and the police department were already aware of his technical capability. All appointments these days were in people's online diaries. If Honey Singh's diary was kept au courant the info could not have stayed veiled, not for someone who could penetrate a hotel's security networks and manipulate surveillance cameras. The thing that baffled Rita was what was so important that the duplicate Honey Singh required from the real one's office? Couldn't he have sent someone else? Or did he trust no one? Whatever it was it must be important and urgent. Like, maybe, planting a bug in the office, which only he was adept at? And how did the duplicate Honey Singh enter into the office? Wasn't Titu, the guard dog-cum-receptionist there? If he was he must have surely noticed Honey Singh return earlier than expected and in changed clothing? Indeed, that would have been a giveaway. It was worth checking Titu's schedule for the day too.
And if Honey Singh number two wasn't Handlebar's mystery client, who was? And how would he react to this new dimension? That is, if this was a new dimension for him. Maybe he already knew about the existence of the doppelgänger, and the whole thing was only set up for evidentiary purposes and maybe the surveillance on Honey Singh would now be terminated? Rita wasn't pleased. There were too many maybes here. Moreover, they had stopped Handlebar from reporting the existence of the duplicate. If the second surveillance guys hadn't spotted the doppelgänger, the client would still not be in the know. And if they had seen the duplicate and reported what repercussions could that have on Handlebar for censoring that info? Maybe dire?
She was contented she had placed Mrs and Mr Handlebar under security. Nevertheless the thorn that still hurt was who was the anonymous client? And what did he want?
She segued back to Handlebar's story. Didn't he say that the duplicate Honey Singh was there before the real one left? Where was he hiding? That was easy. One could find a million plus places to lose oneself in a crowd of people. What if — a thought jumped out with a start and came right upfront into her mind — what if Honey Singh knew about his replica and the Honey Singh number two and instead of hiding, had gone to the office to meet him?
The phone rang and axed the thought. She looked at the display. The call had been routed through the switchboard. 'DCP Rita Ferreira.'
'Hello DCP Ferreira,' said the male voice. 'Finally, after going through the whole series of checks, I did get connected to you.'
'And why are you looking for me, if I may ask?'
'It's you who are looking for me, DCP Ferreira, not me. One of my friends called up to say they had been contacted by one of your people asking about me.'
'And you are…?'
'Veer Singh.'
Rita looked at the display again. The call routed through switchboard should have been clocked there. The whereabouts shouldn't be impossible to trace. 'Yes Mr Singh, we are. Who told you?'
'Doesn't matter, does it? You wanted to speak to me and I called. Why bother the person who made your task easier? How may I be of help?'
'Fair enough. Mr Singh, we need to speak to you, meet you as soon as possible.'
'What for? Am I in any kind of trouble?'
'Not at all, it's an enquiry and it's best we meet. I'll explain.'
'I'm not in town, DCP Ferreira, could I not answer your questions on the phone?'
I need to see you.
'Where are you Mr Singh?'
'Away, but you are in luck. I was planning to visit Mumbai so why don't I come and see you on Monday? That's the best I can do.'
'That's great. I didn't know you were in India.'
'I've been back for quite some time now.'
'Should we say Monday morning at my office?'
'My flight only gets there around lunch. I'll give you a call as soon as I land if you give me your direct line — it will save me the bother of going through the whole hoopla again.'
Rita gave him the number.
And that pushed her mind into hitherto unknown conjectures. The man they had been looking for since almost the beginning of this investigation had called up to say he wanted to come down to see her. On his own. There was some catch here, had to be. She immediately called the switchboard to check where the call had come from. It seemed Veer Singh had called from a mobile with a concealed caller ID. No sweat, there were other ways, she knew. Mobile calls are anonymous for ordinary citizens. The police, working with any mobile operator could find the true caller ID using the nearest mobile tower. It wasn't instantaneous; it was difficult, it wasn't impossible. She called Nene, briefed him on the call and asked him to find the number and even triangulate the location of Veer Singh, if he was, as he said, in India. It was a matter of hours. She decided that she wouldn't wait for Veer Singh to turn up on Monday, she'd get him picked up as soon as they knew where he was.
It was a little over seven in the evening now. Ash's flight was scheduled to land in Mumbai at 8:55. There seemed little point in hanging around in the office till late. She decided she'd rather go home and relax.
Sheila was not her real name. No one knew her real name except her and her parents who had named her. But they were long dead. She changed her name and looks with every assignment. It was past midnight and she was past her quota of drinks when her mobile phone rang: Caller ID “Unknown”. She had a good idea who it would most likely be at this godforsaken hour. It was her handler who she had met merely once in her life and who lived somewhere in Ranchi or Patna or somewhere between the two cities in Bihar, and who vetted all the jobs and collected all the cash. Ten lacs were enough to bump someone off. Considering there weren't too many female hired assassins available, Sheila pocketed eighty percent of the earnings plus reasonable expenses.
Terms were simple: all payment in advance, no evidence or clue or even a trace left, nothing that could lead to anyone, no questions asked and no contact post the deal till the task was accomplished.
Sheila jotted down the target's name and co-ordinates. It would be an early morning drive for a late morning flight, she calculated after the call. Nothing to worry about.
***
KOVALAM BEACH RESORT,
KERALA
The guy with his back towards her was tall — maybe six-feet-one or two, shaved head, built like a tree trunk and with a humungous multicolour tattoo that covered his entire back: some kind of a dragon or something alien just as her handler had described. He sat on the stool at the beach bar wearing his trunks, barefoot. She knew it was him she had been sent for. She didn't need any further verification, but still it was best to check. She clandestinely clicked a picture with her mobile phone and texted it and waited sixty seconds. Her mobile vibrated. The sender was “Unknown”, but she knew who it would be. Most people couldn't send SMS as anonymous; calls yes, but not texts. But her handler knew people who knew the technical wizardry to keep his identity concealed. The message was short and to the point: “Yes, it's him.” Sheila wasn't checked-in. She went to the shower rooms and changed into a bikini to display her own large tattoo on her back, and came out like she was just another hotel guest walking out to the beach. She walked unbridled to the bar, asked for a strawberry margarita and sat down three barstools away from the guy, well aware that he had spotted her. She wasn't someone men missed usually — not least, when she was in a bikini. The bartender got busy preparing her drink as she looked ahead at the vast expanse of the sea, avoiding all eye contact with the guy.
Psychologists have statistically proven that the human brain processes and retains absolutes over relatives. People are inclined to remember or relate to an absolute distinguishable feature. A man six foot from the ground is tall. But put him next to Bi
g Show or Khali of WWE and suddenly he is relatively “the shorter one”. Same for dark, fair, fat, slim. Brown hair colour? Dark brown? Light brown? Coffee brown? Chocolate brown? L'Oréal could actually run a course with a degree on fifty-odd shades of brown.
Bald is a near absolute.
The target here was bald.
Moustaches aren't absolute or distinguishable. Handlebar moustaches are a near absolute.
If you sent someone to pick up a beautiful woman from an airport and you had Cindy Crawford, Sushmita Sen and Jennifer Aniston arriving on the same flight? It made the choice relative. If you told the same guy to pick up the girl with a mole on her upper lip he'd surely come back with Cindy.
Pockmarks are absolute. Visible moles are absolute.
A larger than usual, unmissable tattoo of Linda Goodman's Sun signs on Shelia's back that was visible, because she wore a bikini, would be the only thing remembered long after by people who merely got a glance. They would forget her face, hair, skin colour and body contours. Save for the bartender, Satish Menon who had seen her up close for a longer duration, which wasn't good. It wasn't good at all for Satish.
She waited.
Let him come to you. He will, she knew. She knew the game. Heck! She made the rules of the game.
'Your drink ma'am.' Satish, the bartender brought back her pink drink.
'Oh, that looks great, thank you.'
'Would you want to sign it to your room?'
Sheila looked around as if she was sceptical of letting anyone around know which room she was in. 'No, I'll pay cash before I go back if that's OK?'
'Sure ma'am.'
Sheila took a sip, kept her glass down and walked towards the water, which was barely ten metres away from the bar. It was late evening but the sun still lent warmth to the cool water. There were only a few people on the beach, two families with kids that were in the distance, and what seemed like a honeymooning couple who were totally engrossed in each other. If they saw her from this distance they would indeed, only remember the tattoo. She took a dip, played with the water and returned to her drink ten minutes later. The bald guy was still there, sipping his beer, mesmerised by the sea or her or both.
'You here alone?' he finally asked.
'Yes. How about you?'
'Yep, alone.' He got up and moved to the stool next to her. He was not a bad-looking guy. Chiselled face, high cheekbones, just as she had been told. No fat. In fact he looked like someone who visited the gym pretty often. The abs were a testament to that. 'What, if I may ask, is someone like you doing alone on this beach resort?'
'I could ask you the same question.'
'I'm on vacation.'
'All by yourself?'
'Yes. You see if I wasn't alone I would miss all that is beautiful in this world. Like you,' he said.
'Talk about a back-handed compliment.'
'I'm sure you have no dearth of admirers—'
'And yet, I'm vacationing alone.'
'Perhaps, you don't want to be tied down. Like me.'
'So what's your story?'
'Born in Mumbai, well, it was Bombay back then. Finished schooling there, then went to engineering college in Delhi, returned and set up my own business. It didn't do too well, so I moved to the US and tried my luck there and set up a company with a few other brains. We wrote an algorithm that got bought — lock, stock and barrel, as they say — by a much bigger fish so all of us cashed out.'
'Loaded then?'
'Sadly not as much as I made.'
'Why? Spent it on women and booze?'
'Wish I had, but I got married, got divorced, remarried, re-divorced...'
'You seem to be a serial divorcee.'
'You could say that, and I could justify that both times it wasn't my fault but, what's the point? I still lost a lot of money particularly in the first divorce. I was careful and, thankfully, had a pre-nup or else I would have been wiped out twice.' He let out a gruff laugh for effect.
'So what are you doing in this property in Kovalam? I mean it is beautiful but it is at the back of bloody beyond.'
'I find it very peaceful here, don't you?'
'So you live at this resort?'
'No. I live on a houseboat in the backwaters near Cochin, but I come here once in a while looking for good company.'
'And do you always get company?'
'Not necessarily, but I must say I have been luckier than many,' he said.
'Would I be correct in assuming that you're not looking for a permanent relationship?'
'Yes, you would be absolutely correct in assuming that.'
'So you're looking for sex?' She looked into his eyes.
'I wouldn't reduce seeking companionship to merely some kind of a carnal rendezvous.'
'I have to admit, I like the way you play with words, camouflaging your promiscuity under companionship.'
'Can I buy you a drink?' He ignored her observation and asked.
'Depends…'
'On?'
'What do I have to do to return that favour?'
'You can buy the next round, what did you have in mind?'
'I was wondering if you were buying a drink for companionship—'
'I am already in your company.'
'Oh if this is the boundary of companionship, I am in, absolutely. A margarita for me, I think I'll have a lemon one this time.'
He waved to the bartender who came immediately and took the order.
'I'm sorry I didn't get your name.'
'Sheila,' she said, and put her hand forward for a shake.
'Nice meeting you, Sheila, I'm Veer Singh.'
The two had a few more drinks and spent another hour exploring and teasing each other before, finally, agreeing to hook up for the night.
'What's your room number?' Veer asked.
'What's yours?'
'1104.'
'Why don't you carry on, and I'll change and see you in your room later?'
'Suits me. I have a call to make that I'll do on the way and then see you in my room.' He paid cash for all the drinks and left.
***
The Sig P238 is only 5.5 inches long and weighs about 430 grams, and one could be forgiven for thinking that this diminutive handgun doesn't pack the same accuracy and as much firepower as any big Sig Sauer. But it does. And in any event any gun is great at close range. Sheila had taken her handbag into the bathroom while Veer Singh lay on the bed in anticipation of a steamy session. It took her longer than she had expected to attach the Poseidon silencer — minutes seemed like hours, but she wasn't some novice, she had done this before numerous times. Veer Singh's brain was still processing the randy desires when the 9mm bullet caught him unguarded and killed him along with all prurience on his mind. The bullet tore through his right eye and lodged itself inside the brain, destroying his face beyond recognition in the course. Just as instructed.
So much for seeking random companionship, thank you very much for the drinks. She looked at him cavalierly once and walked out of the hotel room.
The police would discover two bodies in the hotel complex the next morning. Veer Singh's and Satish Menon's. Satish was collateral damage, he had seen Sheila chat and get cosy with Veer Singh, and though the couple had not left the bar together anyone with half a brain would have guessed they would regroup for a rendezvous. Sheila wasn't wont to leaving loose ends.
***
Sheila left under the darkness of the night — long before the corpses were discovered — walked five kilometres, keeping away from the main road, walking on the side roads, till she found an old Ambassador car that she could open and jump start. She drove the rest of the way to Trivandrum Airport and took a light to Kolkata. She made a quick call from the airport to convey to her handler that the task had been accomplished. She used the Railway Station retiring room to wash, peeled off the tattoo sheath from her back and flushed it down the toilet, changed from femme fatale into a salwar kameez wearing plain-Jane and boarded the Rajdhani Express from Howr
ah to Delhi the same evening and got off somewhere before the train arrived in Delhi. Sheila was now dead. The next assignment she would be someone else for someone else.
Rita zapped a fish patty in the microwave, put it between a bread roll with mayonnaise, mustard and lettuce and made herself a DIY burger. She saw no point in waiting for Ash, as he would have had his dinner before the flight and some further snacks on board if he wanted. She thought about having a drink but decided against it. If Ash was coming over it was best to wait than lose sanity to alcohol before that. As it is, the case had put her in a spot of bother. After weeks on a merry-go-round what did the team have? Clues? None. Leads? Hardly anything noteworthy. Evidence? Zilch. Theories? Galore. The case now seemed like a multi-starrer flop film of the 80s: one where even the director had lost the plot halfway through.
Thankfully, to take her mind away from the problem, she saw the dress she had kept ready for the evening: the little black number and the stilettos. She had a quick shower and got ready for the evening. Besides it being an amorous weekend with a friend, she recognised that her excitement to see Ash was also fuelled by the fact that Ash would have thought about the case. With her past experience of working with him she knew that he did not need to see the evidence per se to come up with his analysis. And being a trained criminal psychologist he had been in practice long enough to have seen so many strange cases that didn't make sense on the surface, but had underlying connections that led the police to the perpetrators. Or, at least, he could help work out some new suspects or a pointer.