‘Sharma was the IO,’ he said. ‘He’ll tell you about the case.’
An unsolved murder; it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in Delhi. The SHO motioned with his fingers to a constable standing outside, and then the day’s suspected or known offenders and aggrieved parties were paraded in. A flabby, unshaven bootlegger (Kamlesh asked him and his mother to stop business for a while), an old thief who loudly proclaimed his innocence (and had to be dragged away to the lock-up), the man Arjun had seen arguing outside and who now claimed his son had almost been kidnapped by a neighbour but had managed to get away. Then came half a dozen women escorted by a woman constable, all dressed in dirty embroidered skirts and blouses. From the conversation between the SHO and the woman constable, Arjun gathered that they were gypsies from Jat Khari in Madhya Pradesh, and had been picked up earlier for pick-pocketing in the capital. As the rest of the women complained loudly, his attention was drawn to the youngest of them, a pretty, sullen-faced teenager with a grimy visage looking down at the white-tiled floor.
Kamlesh listened to the constable and the women with an expression of growing exasperation, before instructing that they be taken away and given a good hiding to make them confess. ‘Chamra utar do,’ he said to the lady constable: skin their hides. The wailing women were led away with the teenager at the end, still looking down.
A well-built young man in a red polo shirt, jeans and white sneakers entered. Kamlesh introduced him to Arjun as Inspector Sharma. Arjun had seen him a while ago in the reporting room, his shirt collar raised up. Now it was turned down. Sharma sat down one chair away from Arjun in the front row of chairs, and Kamlesh introduced them. At that moment the duty officer and some others entered, and Kamlesh got caught up in planning an operation. Arjun made some small talk with Sharma while listening to Kamlesh: a murder-accused from Bihar had kidnapped a girl from Delhi and had taken her back with him by train; now they were sending men after him, but the Crime Branch was on his trail as well.
Sharma, seeing Arjun’s attention wander, suggested they go to his office. It turned out to be a small room in the building behind the Sarojini Nagar SHO’s office, where the canteen and lock-up and armoury were. Two tables took up most of the space, and Arjun sat on one of the two plastic chairs while Sharma checked his laptop, possibly to get back at Arjun for letting his attention wander. Hanging above him on nails were a dark-brown uniform shirt and a pair of old blue trackpants. Arjun waited, purposely not checking his phone. From the lock-up came the cries of the women as they were beaten. Finally Sharma looked up.
‘Listen to them singing,’ he said with a smile.
Arjun forced himself to smile back.
‘So you’re a detective?’ Sharma asked with noticeable sarcasm.
Arjun kept smiling. ‘There was a don from Mumbai the Indian government managed to extradite last year from Dubai. If you talk to the joint commissioner of police, Surender Jha, he’ll tell you that a case I handled led that person to being extradited.’
It wasn’t 100 per cent accurate, and Arjun hated dropping names, but this was an exception. He could see Sharma thinking, possibly doing a cost–benefit analysis.
‘It was a tough case,’ Sharma finally said. ‘We had a suspect, but he had a good alibi. And because the girl was from Nagaland, we couldn’t . . .’ he trailed off.
‘Find out much?’ Arjun offered, at which the inspector nodded.
‘The suspect must be Rohit Chaudhry?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that chutiya. He said he was at a drinking party with some friends that night.’
‘Any other theories you have?’
‘Well . . . Kamlesh sir said the father might have done it too . . . as the girl had many boyfriends.’
Arjun would have laughed, had it not been for the serious expression on Sharma’s face.
‘But her father wasn’t even in Delhi.’
‘He could have asked someone to do it. There are so many terrorists among them.’
As with the shopkeeper that morning, Arjun had to remind himself to keep calm.
‘I’ve been asked to cooperate with the police, so any new information I find, I’ll share with you.’
Sharma nodded.
‘But I’ll need to see the case diary and the crime-scene photos. Can you arrange it?’
‘But, Mr Arora, those are privileged . . .’
‘Privileged documents, I know. But what if I find out something useful? Something that allowed you to solve the case?’ He added again, ‘I’ve worked in Nagaland, I know these people.’
He could see that Sharma was close to taking the bait. He could have talked about giving Amenla justice, and finding closure for her family, but he doubted that would particularly appeal to Sharma’s emotions.
The inspector’s mobile phone started ringing. He raised a finger to accept the call, then paused, and told Arjun, ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do.’
His finger was still poised over the phone, so Arjun stood up and placed a visiting card on his desk. As he walked away, Sharma’s voice followed him down the dark corridor, ‘You sisterfucker, I never thought you would do this to us . . .’
10
AS ARJUN DROVE HOME, HE realized he was exhausted. The visit to the police station had drained him out, and his hands had started throbbing: five fractured metacarpals from when the psychopath Kailash Swami had taken a hammer to his hands after drugging him, but his hands had healed. There were still a couple of calls to be made, though, before he could call it a day though. Stuck in a long line of traffic at South Extension, where one of the metro lines was being built, he wondered if Sharma would deliver. He had told them he would cooperate, but his responsibility was to his client above all.
The face of the young girl inside the SHO’s office came to his mind. How long would her innocence last? Her initiation into a life of crime had begun. Arjun could still hear the screams of the women inside the lock-up. Amenla, whose name the IO didn’t even remember, strangled to death. Was he the only one who could give her justice, or to her memory at least? Looking to his left he saw a blurred reflection of himself in the car window, and the lights of vehicles and stores outside. What ghosts was he chasing here in this city? He considered stopping at the wine shop beside the Savitri flyover on the way home, but then he had stayed dry for three months now—let him see how long he could stretch it.
When he got back to his flat he took a shower, then soaked both his hands in a basin of hot salt water and massaged the back of his hands with his thumbs the way the physiotherapist had shown him. The metacarpals—three in the left hand and two in the right—were a bit curved now, and still hurt sometimes, but otherwise he could go about his business as before.
He was in no mood to cook, and ordered some roomali rotis and chicken korma from the modest restaurant his butcher had started in the Savitri complex. It was 10.30 p.m. by then, and he hesitated before dialling the number. Shillong would be asleep by now. But the call was answered just a few rings later.
‘Hello?’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m calling from Delhi. Mr Long—’
‘Are you the detective?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘I was waiting for your call.’
‘I see. My name is Arjun Arora.’
‘I know. Uncle Toshi told me. Amenla’s father, I mean. I’m Nancy Jamir, her cousin.’
‘Sorry to call you so late.’
‘No problem. I’m a bit of a night owl myself. So have you found out anything?’
‘Actually I’ve just started. I went to the police station this evening.’
‘You must have met Inspector Sharma. Such a useless guy, ya.’
‘Yes, I met him. I had a few questions to ask you.’
‘Go ahead.’
She had a pleasant voice, and Arjun could hear a television in the background.
‘Your uncle told me you were close to Amenla. What do you think happened?’
‘You mean who killed her?
I think it was someone she knew. But the motive . . .’
‘Was she going around with Rohit Chaudhry?’
‘She was. It had ended almost a year before. But they were still friends, and he would keep coming around to meet her.’
‘What about the American guy from the embassy? Cooper Grant.’
‘American guy? She never told me about an American.’
Arjun wondered if anyone had noticed the visiting card inside the wallet.
‘All right. I went through an old diary of hers from when she was in Shillong. Do you know who “T” might have been? I think it might have been a boyfriend.’
‘T? In her diary? I don’t . . . oh wait, that would be Tony, I think. Her first love. It ended because her father found out and didn’t approve.’
‘Tony? Mr Longkumer didn’t seem to know any T though.’
‘Uncle knew him by his actual name, Anthony. Only Amenla called him Tony.’
‘Who was he, a Khasi boy?’
‘No, he was a Kuki. Anthony Haokip. From somewhere in Manipur, if I remember correctly. But this was a long time ago, Mr Arora.’ She sounded disappointed, and for some reason Arjun felt the same way too.
‘It’s a routine inquiry. Did she have any complaints about her landlord, or their son?’
‘Not that I recall, no.’
She spoke English well, and, as at Nagaland House earlier in the day, Arjun found himself being reminded of people and places from the past.
‘Did she have any Naga boyfriends here in Delhi?’
‘There was one, an Angami boy. What was his name . . . Kevi, I think.’
‘Would you have his number by any chance?’
‘No. I could try and find out though.’
‘If you can . . . Would you know if any of Amenla’s friends had a grey SUV?’
‘Grey SUV? Hmm . . . I can’t recall. Rohit had a red Audi.’
‘I have to go and meet Rohit Chaudhry tomorrow, and the American guy,’ he said. ‘I also wanted to meet her former roommates. Mr Longkumer said you had their numbers.’
‘Yes, I’ll message their numbers to you—Abeni and Chon. The last I heard, they were still in Humayunpur.’
‘When did Amenla leave them?’
‘About a year before the incident.’
That was around the time she had broken up with Rohit Chaudhry, Arjun realized.
‘Did they quarrel over something?’
‘No, nothing of that sort. But Amenla liked to be on her own. And her job timings were different. She did complain to me once or twice about visitors and too much noise.’
‘I see. One more thing. She had renewed her passport in the second half of last year. Was she planning to go somewhere abroad?’
‘Not that I know off. She could be . . . secretive at times.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, Nancy. I might call again if I have more questions.’
‘Anytime. Uncle told me you were in the North-east before.’
‘I grew up there. Shillong, Nagaland, Assam.’
‘That’s nice.’ There was a pause, then she said, ‘I still can’t believe she’s gone, you know. Who would want to harm a girl like her? I hope you find whoever did it.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Well, good luck for tomorrow. I’ll message you the numbers.’
‘Thank you.’
He hung up. A message popped up on his phone just a few seconds later, and then his food arrived as he was saving the numbers. It was the usual delivery boy with his grinning face, and he told Arjun that he should call earlier for dinner.
‘I’ve been wandering around half of Delhi, chhotu,’ Arjun told him as he handed over the bill amount and a large tip.
He ate while watching the news on television. As usual the food was excellent, the rotis still hot and fluffy, and the korma creamy and tangy. After he was done he went out to the balcony for a smoke. 11.30 p.m. CR Park was quiet now, but he could hear the vehicles rushing past on the Outer Ring Road, a ceaseless flow of traffic. Amenla had been close to Nancy, but there were things she hadn’t told her cousin. He remembered the crumbling red tablet, and the question came to him again: had she been hiding something?
It was too late to type down his notes for the day: he decided to do it in the morning. Before turning in for the night, he called Abeni on the number Nancy had given him. The Lotha girl sounded surly and slightly suspicious when Arjun told her why he was calling, but he managed to fix a meeting with her for the next morning in Humayunpur. Then he turned off the television and the sitting-room lights and went to the bedroom.
He lay awake for a while in the dark, thinking about Amenla’s old photos and letters in the shoebox.
11
BY 9 A.M. THE NEXT morning he was back in Safdarjung B Block, where he parked his Scorpio beside the same MCD park. The chhole–kulche-wallah was already at the park gate with his cycle, heating up kulchas on a small kerosene stove for a customer. Arjun might have tried some, but the puri and aloo sabzi his maid had prepared for breakfast had filled him up. She had narrated a long story about the troubles with her daughter-in-law while she cooked, and Arjun had half-listened while reading the newspapers. The frosty relationship with her ever since Sonali and Rhea had left had now thawed, but sometimes he missed that uncommunicative stage.
He had woken early, rested but not refreshed, with something nagging at the back of his mind. After running a few rounds in the park below, he had come home and showered, put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and then sat down at the dining table with his laptop to type out the previous day’s notes. In this he had his own system, with headings for each individual and bullet points for what they had said. He found this system of recall sharpened his focus rather than using a recorder. There was also a general summary of the case so far that he updated on a daily basis. A thought had struck him as he had typed, and after he shut down the laptop, he had called Computer Baba and told him to mark calls from outside Delhi in the call detail records of Amenla’s number and mention their place of origin.
Arjun retraced his route from the previous day, to the grocery store and salon and down the lane past the RWA gate. He crossed the Sodhis’ gate, looking up at the terrace as he went past. From the intersection he carried on straight. On either side of him were three-storey apartments, most of them renovated with glass and steel and tiles for that shiny international look which was spreading across Delhi. But there was still a vegetable seller’s cart, moving from house to house, the maids choosing the day’s supply even as they gossiped with the man as the guards looked on.
He took a left and a right, and then, beyond a small mandir and a large tree, he was in another world. Now there were cramped buildings and small dusty lanes with wires hanging overhead and noticeably tribal and Nepali people walking about the crowded neighbourhood. Arjun saw an old man sorting empty bottles in a grimy kabaadi shop on the ground floor of a building, and stopped to ask for directions. He went down a narrow lane, passing property dealers, paan-wallahs, clothes shops, some sickly-looking chicken in a cage outside a meat shop, grocery stores and even a ‘Tangkhul Naga’ store that advertised smoked meat, bamboo shoots, Wai-Wai and the large bean known as yongchak. Some distance ahead the lane widened, and there were bigger houses with marble-floored courtyards, white SUVs parked inside. These appeared to belong to the locals of this urban, or lal dora, village, Jats probably, grown rich dealing with migrants. Another narrow lane, a right turn, and then he was out on a street, a high wall to one side and dust-covered cars parked beside it.
An awning of tarpaulin had been fixed at the base of an old peepul tree by the wall, and under it several stocky, young Jat men sat smoking a hookah. Across from the wall was a line of slightly more prosperous-looking buildings, with a gym in the basement of the building opposite the hookah corner. Arjun walked ahead, checking the house numbers. He didn’t have to walk far to spot the number Abeni had mentioned. Outside the first floor was a signboard that said ‘N
ew Hope Foundation: A Sustainable Development NGO’. He walked up the narrow outer staircase to the second floor and knocked on the door.
It was opened by a girl of medium height wearing a grey T-shirt and denim shorts. She had a broad face and straight, long hair. On the balcony behind her he saw a clothes rack, chairs, a washing machine and cardboard boxes.
‘Hi. Arjun Arora,’ he said, extending his right hand.
She regarded him without enthusiasm, and shook his hand. ‘Abeni. Come in.’
The sitting room just behind the sliding doors had the same feel of cluttered domesticity. There was an extra-large flat-screen television on one wall. And also the faint smell again of things dried and fermented. Arjun wondered how long it would be before someone offered him a Naga meal.
‘As I said, I got your number from Nancy Jamir,’ he said, sitting down on a purple-coloured sofa.
She nodded, still standing.
‘Like I mentioned last night, I’m a detective. Amenla’s father has asked me to find out what I can.’
She nodded again, her eyes fixed on him.
‘Why don’t you sit down? I just need to ask you a few questions.’
‘Ah, actually, can we go and sit in a cafe down below?’
‘Sure. No problem.’
He followed her out of the flat, trying not to show his surprise. On the first floor the door was now open, and a tribal-looking boy wearing glasses was sweeping the balcony. He looked up, and raised a hand in greeting at Abeni.
‘What sort of an NGO is it?’ Arjun asked as they went down the steps.
‘Ah, they do community projects and stuff in Manipur.’
Out on the road, she looked right and left, as if deciding which way to go. One of the boys at the hookah corner waved at her, and she waved back.
‘This way,’ she said, turning towards the right.
‘You know the locals around here,’ Arjun said as he walked beside her.
‘Yeah, we’ve been here quite a few years, na.’
The buildings had shops on the ground floor, and crowded dwellings above. The Japfu Cafe was just a few buildings down from Abeni’s place, on the ground floor, with a bamboo-and-thatch extension outside where there were four small tables. They sat at one of the outer tables and a young boy with gelled and spiked hair brought them the menu. They appeared to be the first customers of the day. Abeni told the boy in Nagamese that she wanted a cold coffee, with extra sugar—Arjun gave no indication of having understood—and then asked him what he wanted.
More Bodies Will Fall Page 6