by Vivaan Shah
‘It’s okay,’ said the receptionist, ‘I understand.’
‘There are certain rules and regulations here,’ Irshaad giggled, ‘and we wouldn’t want to violate any of those, would we, Nadeem?’
‘Oh no,’ Nadeem stuttered, ‘we wouldn’t.’
‘After all,’ continued Irshaad, with an exceedingly wide grin, ‘this is a delicate, sensitive place and we wouldn’t want to draw too much attention to it, would we?’
‘Absolutely not!’
Irshaad’s smile was now beginning to crack at the seams, and as Nadeem looked down at the floor to avoid eye contact, it turned almost instantaneously into a grimace.
‘You wouldn’t tell anybody about this place, would you, Nadeem?’
‘Me? No, of course not.’
‘You wouldn’t tell anybody that you saw me here, would you, Nadeem? It’s not the kind of place I’d like to be seen at, if you know what I mean.’
‘You can count on me, Irshaad.’
‘Because if you do tell anybody that you ran into me here, and I find out about it, you know what that means, don’t you, Nadeem?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I’m here for my counselling session. I have to come once a week. My hearing is coming up. The doc from Nandlal Pramod Functionality Centre sent me here, so you see, I’m not here out of my own choice.’
‘I understand.’
Irshaad Batla looked into the mirror, studying his own reflection. He then tilted his head sideways to get a good clear look at Nadeem. He was trembling and was about to break into a sweat. He tried calming his nerves down by turning his attention to the receptionist who was engrossed in a sheet of paper. A magazine lay next to him on the table, which Irshaad had probably just read. Nadeem tried to reach for it when, all of a sudden, Irshaad pounced on him, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and pinning him against the notice board, which had a poster on it saying: ‘Behavioural Symptoms of Schizophrenia and How to Cure Them’.
‘You listen to me, Chipkali. If you so much as open your mouth to your flatmate or tell anybody you saw me here, I’m going to have to take precautionary measures to ensure you never talk again.’
‘You have my oath on it. I give my word that I will not tell a soul about this.’
‘You think it’s funny? Me needing to go for therapy to a psychiatrist.’
‘No, Irshaad, I don’t!’
‘I wasn’t born yesterday. Don’t think that I don’t know that you snitched on me!’
‘No, Irshaad, I swear I didn’t!’ cried Nadeem, practically bending down on his knees.
‘You’re a rat!’ screamed Irshaad. ‘You’re a grade-A stool pigeon. The lowest form of humanity. The scum of the earth.’
‘Look, Irshaad, I can explain!’
‘Explain it to this,’ Irshaad brandished an automatic pistol which he pulled out of his pant pocket.
‘Irshaad! Please! Don’t do anything stupid, Irshaad. You don’t want to go to jail for shooting a worthless piece of shit like me! Come on, Irshaad, please calm down!’
Irshaad stuck the gun into Nadeem’s mouth. Nadeem nearly gagged on it as the receptionist got up to reach for the intercom. One of Irshaad’s cronies prevented him from doing so. The bell on his desk rang, which meant that Dr Vengsarkar was calling his patient into his office. Irshaad slowly turned towards Dr Vengsarkar’s door as he heard the bell. He removed the gun from Nadeem’s mouth and kicked the doctor’s office door open.
‘Doctor, would you kindly step outside your office for a moment?’
Dr Vengsarkar got up from his desk, visibly agitated, and came out of his office into the waiting room. Irshaad held the gun up for him to take a good clear look at.
‘Today, I’d like to ask some questions,’ he smirked, pointing the gun at Dr Vengsarkar’s stomach, ‘and this will be doing the counselling.’
‘Irshaad, please put the gun down!’ Dr Vengsarkar stammered.
‘What’s the matter, doctor? Are you afraid of me?’
‘Irshaad, son, please put the gun down,’ Dr Vengsarkar begged him. ‘Whatever it is that’s troubling you, we can talk it through. You’re an unstable person, you’re clinically diagnosed.’
‘What is this guy doing here?’ he asked the doctor about Nadeem.
‘I don’t know who he is,’ the doctor assured Irshaad. ‘I’ve never met him before.’
‘I came here to ask the doctor about one of his patients,’ said Nadeem.
‘Which patient?’ Irshaad sneered.
‘A man who lived in my building. He was brutally murdered.’
Irshaad’s eyes lit up. He lowered the gun and went up to Nadeem, grabbing hold of him fiercely.
‘How did you find out about this place?’
‘They found a medical prescription slip in his pocket which was traced to this clinic. That’s why I came here.’
‘Don’t lie! Who told you I was coming here for counselling?’
‘No one! I swear!’
Irshaad put the gun down and shoved it into his back pocket. He looked at Nadeem with a blank stare and picked up the phone book and the register from the counter where the receptionist sat. The receptionist was stunned and had frozen in mid-sentence. He looked towards his employer who told him to remain calm and that everything was under control. Irshaad Batla shrugged his shoulders a couple of times, adjusted his shirt and looked at himself in the mirror again. He fixed his hair and buttoned his sleeves, turning back to Dr Vengsarkar and following him into his office. Dr Vengsarkar shut the door gently.
Harbour Line
Nadeem caught his breath as he exited the clinic. Irshaad’s maroon Honda Civic was standing outside. Nadeem asked the driver, Kaashif Bhai, to give him a lift till Dadar station, which was only five minutes away.
‘What are you doing here, Chipkali?’ he snickered, as Nadeem got into the car.
‘Getting treatment for anger management.’
‘Irshaad could do with some of that,’ he laughed.
‘How often does he come here?’
‘Once a week.’
‘Ever see a white Indica parked outside the clinic?’
‘Once, if I remember correctly. There were scratches all over, the mudguard had some damage on it. Nothing serious.’
‘How long do his sessions go on for?’
‘Depends. Sometimes they take hours.’
‘Can’t be too much fun for you, I imagine.’
‘I’m used to it. A good driver has to have patience.’
‘What about a good getaway driver?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
‘What’s Irshaad been up to lately?’
‘Nothing, just laying low. Heading to Singapore next week. They’re moving into construction.’
Kaashif pulled over next to Dadar station. It was swarming with hordes of passengers. The ticket counter had lines stretching all the way out to the main road. Nadeem requested Kaashif to drop him to King’s Circle instead. He thought it made more sense to take the harbour line.
Once he boarded the train and was certain that no one had followed him, he took out his phone and dialled Warren’s number. The whole compartment was smelling of fish and was relatively empty compared to the Western or Central Railway line. Nadeem was on the train bound for Byculla. As usual, Warren didn’t pick up the phone and Nadeem had to try three more times before he got a response.
‘Hello,’ he mumbled into the phone as the train started moving. ‘You won’t believe who I ran into at Dr Vengsarkar’s clinic.’
‘NADEEM! Get your ass here right now, this instant!’
‘What happened?’
‘I can’t explain, just hurry up and come here,’ whispered Warren, cutting the call.
Nadeem decided to change trains in order to head back to Malad immediately. He wondered what the matter was and why Warren wouldn’t speak, as he got off at Cotton Green and caught a train for Wadala. He changed trains there and got back on to the Western line.
By the time he reached home, Inspector Nagpal and his deputy, Srikant, were seated on the couch, watching television after having conducted a painstaking and arduous search of the house, which was not an easy task considering how messy it was. They had made themselves at home and were enjoying the various facilities and amenities of their humble abode.
‘Come in,’ Nagpal called out to Nadeem, as soon as he noticed him get out of the lift.
The flat had been literally ripped apart inch by inch. There were all sorts of files and documents, which had been collected from the flat upstairs, scattered all about the place. There were four empty cups of tea, which hadn’t been cleared, and Srikant was busy going through a series of papers, crumpling pages out of them and tossing them into the dustbin.
Srikant asked Nadeem to take a seat.
‘Let him stand,’ Inspector Nagpal muttered.
‘It’s my house,’ Nadeem reminded him, ‘and I’m going to take a seat.’
Warren stood morosely in a corner, playing host to the two policemen, certainly looking like he was not in the best of moods.
‘We ran a check on the white Indica,’ said Inspector Nagpal. ‘The number plates had been changed and it was registered under the name of one H.S. Mehta—Harry Suketu Mehta, a restaurant owner from Lokhandwala, who had filed for a missing car back in 2016.’
‘We also checked with all the chemists and pharmacies in the area,’ said Srikant. ‘The only one that had a record of Makhija as a patient was the pharmacy in K.L. Hospital in Malad, just off the flyover, next to Inorbit Mall. It’s not a very good hospital.’
‘Why would he go all the way there?’ asked Nadeem. ‘He could easily have obtained the prescribed medication from any chemist or pharmacy in this area.’
‘We checked the hospital records,’ said Srikant. ‘He was admitted there for dengue and malaria a couple of years ago. It was the only place he could afford. Apparently, he’s even donated blood in the same hospital for money. Used to get paid per gallon.’
‘Did you check his bank details?’ asked Nadeem.
‘There was a cash transfer made from his account to an unverified one. We have all the account details, but apparently, the account holder registered under a fake name. The mobile number, however, is genuine and we are trying to trace it.’
‘Is this the number?’ Nadeem showed him the number he had noted down from the dhobi.
‘How did you get hold of it?’ asked Inspector Nagpal, inquisitively.
‘The dhobi found the number in Makhija’s pant pockets.’
‘If you find anything else in there, let us know,’ Inspector Nagpal laughed, telling Srikant to go and make some more tea. Nadeem checked with Warren whether they even had any tea leaves or teabags and was told that there were still some dregs in one of the containers.
‘We’ve already had four cups,’ Inspector Nagpal told Nadeem.
‘I’ll go and make some more,’ Nadeem said, heading towards the kitchen.
‘That’s all right,’ Srikant stopped him before he could leave the living room. ‘I’ll go and make it; I made the last two rounds.’
Srikant went into the kitchen and opened the cabinet over the sink, which contained indiscriminate objects of household value like cups, glasses, plates, forks and spoons, fetching the sugar and a year-old packet of Taj Mahal tea. He washed the vessel which had been used to make the previous cups, got rid of the milk powder dust and proceeded to make the tea as if it was his own kitchen. After having searched and ransacked the apartment, he was reasonably aware of where things were kept.
‘Looks like you guys have made yourself at home,’ sneered Nadeem.
‘Srikant makes a hell of a cup of tea. You ought to try it.’
‘If it’s any better than what you serve at the police station, it’ll do,’ said Nadeem. ‘You think you could send him over to make breakfast in the mornings?’
‘Shut up and sit down, Khatib,’ Inspector Nagpal snapped. ‘I have some pertinent information I want to share with you.’
‘Are they facts or is it information?’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘There’s plenty of difference, Inspector. You’re talking to a person who deals in information. You could say that’s how I make my living. You ever heard of Inspector V.M. Gaekwad?’
‘Which area?’ Inspector Nagpal seemed slightly offended by his referring to another officer.
‘Byculla. Call him up and have a word with him. Take my name and ask him who I am.’
‘Don’t try and be smart with me, Khatib. You’re a two-bit broker and nothing else. You try and pull any stunts with me, taking officer’s names, and I’ll take you down to the station with me and give you such a thrashing that you’ll forget your own name. Then, you can take all the names you like. Who do you think you are? Taking big names! It may work with the traffic police or the RTO cops, but not with me. Is that clear?’
‘Crystal clear,’ laughed Nadeem.
‘Sit down and listen to this. You wanted to know his financial records. Here they are. According to his widow, he had been caught trying to embezzle a sum of Rs 7 lakh when he was a prudential fund salesman for HSBC. He was fired immediately and the bank manager filed an FIR against him. Although he was broke at the time of his separation from his wife, he had stashed away enough money in a fixed deposit, which he had made on his commissions, to put up in a terrace flat in Malad. Apparently, even Machhiwaala didn’t know his financial history until he was due to vacate. That’s why he sent you to collect the rent. I guess he figured that the less he had to do with him, the better it was for whomsoever concerned. Little did he know that his tenant wouldn’t make it beyond his lease. Now, he’s stuck with all the paperwork. He isn’t going to be able to find a buyer for that flat even if he gives it out for free.’
‘I can find him a buyer with my eyes closed,’ Nadeem boasted.
‘That’s what you think. No one wants to live in a flat where the previous tenant never made it past his tenure.’
Srikant entered with a tray on which three cups of tea were placed neatly in a single file. He handed a cup to Nadeem.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking a sip. ‘What about Warren? Didn’t you make him a cup?’
‘We asked him for the last two rounds, but he didn’t want any,’ said Srikant.
Nadeem took a sip slowly, blowing a ripple into it to cool it down. It tasted sour and bitter, as if the tea leaves had gone bad. There was probably fungus on them by now.
‘We got a simple clear-cut case out here, gentlemen,’ Inspector Nagpal stated, turning towards Warren who had maintained a dead silence all this while. ‘It’s not an overdose as the post-mortem claims, but a case of pre-meditated murder with the motive to usurp his financial assets.’
‘What financial assets?’ Warren wailed.
‘You keep out of this,’ Srikant instructed him.
‘I’d recommend you to not get involved,’ Inspector Nagpal seconded him.
Nadeem studied the bills and receipts the pharmacy had provided them.
‘Who was his physician?’ asked Nadeem, sipping on his tea. ‘Did he visit a general practitioner or a specialist?’
‘Dr Harish Dang of K.L. Hospital. But he’s nowhere to be found,’ sighed Srikant. ‘We tried calling his residence. He’s quit his practice and is apparently out of town for a medical convention.’
‘Was he known to be so liberal in prescribing medication to his patients?’ asked Nadeem, sarcastically, as he browsed through the pile of Makhija’s prescriptions. There was one page which caught his attention and it looked like it had been forged. The signature did not match the one by Dr Vengsarkar, which was found at the scene of the crime. He showed it to Warren who took one glance at the prescription and stated without missing a beat, ‘I’ve seen this handwriting in the watchman’s register.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Inspector Nagpal.
‘It’s identical to the handwri
ting in the register. The one the two unknown men had signed with,’ Warren remarked. ‘They wrote their names as Ganpat Shukla and Jasmeet Zhaveri. You can tell by the way he’s stressed the ‘G’ and by the cursive that conjoins the two words.’
‘I suggest you go and flip through the watchman’s register and try to match the lettering,’ said Nadeem. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? This is private property.’
‘I’ve got news for you, Khatib,’ Inspector Nagpal scowled. ‘In the eyes of the law, you are the primary suspect.’
‘I thought the case was closed. The post-mortem report said overdose.’
‘We went through his flat again before paying you a visit. We conducted another inspection of the house and this time, we found an empty bottle of Phensedyl next to the medicine cabinet.’
Srikant produced a zip-lock packet from his pocket, which contained the empty bottle, and waved it for Nadeem and Warren to get a good look at.
‘It was drained completely, sucked dry, not even a drop was left,’ said Inspector Nagpal. ‘The receipt sticker on the bottom of the bottle says the date of purchase was six days ago and the expiry date is 2 March 2020, manufactured a month ago. It is obviously new stock. As you know, it takes more than two and a half months for any healthy, normal person in his right mind to go through a bottle of cough syrup, even with the sorest throat imaginable.’
‘Even if he had tonsillitis,’ added Srikant, ‘or tuberculosis or coronary thrombosis, he still wouldn’t be able to finish a bottle of cough syrup in five days, unless . . .’
‘Unless,’ continued Inspector Nagpal, ‘it was stuffed down his throat. A case of poisoning. We are having the bottle sent down to the lab for a fingerprint test.’
Inspector Nagpal and Srikant got up to head towards the door.
‘You better hope your fingerprints don’t show up on that bottle, Khatib.’
Down with the Sickness
‘What do you make of all this?’ asked Warren, after the two cops left the house, slamming the door shut extremely hard as if it were a display of hostility .