Chain of Custody (34 page)

I knew of the breach in the compound wall. I went in through that and entered the house through a ventilator in the servant's bathroom at the back of the house. The lawyer was a cheapskate. He had put a ventilator with glass slats instead of a proper window. I took the slats down one by one.

I was waiting in the kitchen for him. I had my face wrapped in a cloth and in my hand was a cleaver I had found in the kitchen. The edge of the blade was sharp. German steel, the boys had mimicked him. If you look after it, it will serve you for life, he would tell them if one of them left a knife unwashed.

I was going to make him give me the money, then I would tie him up and leave. I knew he lived alone and by the time somebody came to his aid, I would be long gone.

Then I heard voices. I stepped into the passage from where the entrance was visible. I saw the thekedar come in. I saw
him hold the door open for Gita-di's wheelchair. I heard the thekedar speak to the lawyer about some land. But the lawyer was refusing to hear him out.

‘Look, Pujary,' the lawyer said, ‘I told you the deal is off.'

‘Sir, I can sort out that non-encumbrance certificate. There won't be any problem, I assure you. The MLA has assured me that he will handle it.'

‘No.' The lawyer was adamant. ‘This isn't going to work. I have a reputation and your deals are murky. I can't take the risk.'

I could see Gita-di's face change. Her body was beginning to tremble and her face had turned red. The lawyer was waving his hand as he gave the thekedar a lecture. The water bottle in his hand dropped. I saw him bend down to pick it up from beneath that half-moon table. That was when she reached for the stone Buddha on the table and slammed it on his head. Just above the left ear. One heavy blow. And then again. ‘You won't let him change. You and others like you have turned him into this monster. You are evil. Not him,' she screamed again and again at the lawyer, who had fallen face-down on the floor. I could see blood pooling around him. I could see the thekedar's aghast face. I could see the tears streaming down Gita-di's face.

They left hastily and, just as I expected, in ten minutes, he called me. He said there had been an accident, and he wanted me to fix it.

So I did. I wiped all the prints. I left some of my own in the kitchen. Then one of the men from the brothel called me. One of the girls there had died. And I knew that I had to get Nandita out. Even if the thekedar let her go, there would be some form of payback. I knew him well enough. He would get me if I tried to bargain with him. He would have me killed, and then my girl, my Nandita, would never escape. I needed to make sure she was safe. When I got out, I would find her.

I found a cheap phone in the kitchen. It was a phone he had given the boys to use. I knew it would come in handy for what I needed to do next. I called a woman whose number I had and told her about the brothel.

Gowda had listened without interrupting. But now he asked, ‘But why?'

Krishna smiled. ‘The thekedar will never say no to me again. He didn't ask me to confess. I offered to. He likes to think he made me, but he didn't. I created myself. I am Krishna. Besides, he will get me out. I have pictures of what happened on my phone and it's someplace safe. I am the one who can make or break him. I am not just anybody. I am Krishna.'

The door opened and the ACP strode in furiously. ‘What's going on here?' he demanded, glaring at Gowda.

‘Nothing. I just called him in to say hello and thank him. I was on my way back from settling my stolen calf dispute, sir,' Gowda said, at his laconic best.

‘You won't get him,' Krishna called out. ‘You'll never get people like him.'

10.00 p.m.

Nandita pulled out the metal lighter from where she had kept it hidden. The night of the raid, Krishna had come into her cubicle and sat with her. He gave her his lighter and said, ‘Will you keep this for me?'

She had stared at him uncomprehendingly.

He pressed it into her palm. ‘One day I will come for you,' he said.

She flicked open the lighter now and pressed the flint wheel.

A flame rose, tall and steady.

Nandita let it eat into the insides of her palm.

10.30 p.m.

They were all gathered in his living room. Michael and Urmila. Santosh, Ratna, Gajendra and Byrappa.

‘He sounds like he's eighty-four …' Byrappa said.

‘What?' Michael asked.

Gajendra cleared his throat. ‘Section 84 of the IPC. Unsound mind.'

Gowda pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘That he is. And potentially dangerous. He said he would come back for Nandita.' A silence crept into the room.

‘How did you know, Borei, that it was Pujary's wife?' Urmila asked.

‘So many things: the sight of the men in wheelchairs at the nursery, handling giant pots with ease; the strength of the upper body compensating for the wasted lower limbs; the enclosed garden in Pujary's home that he said his wife looked after. Her shoulders and arms seemed well developed. I saw how easily she handled the full coffee pot when we went to their house; the casual lie about visiting the MLA. When I saw the portrait that Shenoy had drawn, it all fell into place. Dr Khan in his postmortem report had said the injury had been inflicted at a point where the maximum joints were. Pujary is too tall to have hit him there. Then I thought of the wife in the wheelchair. I saw it all in my head and the boy said that was exactly how it happened.'

‘So you think she found out what her husband was up to?' Ratna asked.

Gowda nodded. ‘When you see them together, you will understand. They are proud of each other and for her to see him fall from grace might have been unbearable. He didn't commit any of the crimes on his own; he was forced to do them. She needs to believe that.'

‘The Mumbai police are coming tomorrow,' Michael said. ‘The FIR will be written then and they will take the trafficker back once the paperwork is done.'

‘And the children?' Urmila asked.

‘Abdul's father came in this evening. He will take the boy home,' Michael said, not meeting her eye.

‘Tina?'

‘A social worker will travel with her once the formalities are complete. And she will be sent to a Catholic home.'

‘Why isn't she being sent to her home?' Urmila's voice rose as she glared accusingly at Gowda.

‘The mother has gone missing,' Michael said.

For a moment none of them spoke.

‘What now, sir?' Santosh asked. ‘The boy goes to jail for a crime he didn't commit? And that bastard walks free. The lives he has destroyed don't seem to matter. What are we doing calling ourselves the police? We are useless, sir, we are bloody useless!'

Gowda smiled and rose from his chair. ‘There are more ways to skin a cat than one …'

Michael sat up. ‘What do you mean, Bob?'

E
PILOGUE

18 M
ARCH
, W
EDNESDAY

9.00 a.m.

G
owda looked at himself in the mirror. He was tired and the fatigue showed, but his eyes were clear. He appraised himself and hoped his appearance reflected the person he was – an honest policeman trying to work within the system.

He had the file ready. He heard the jeep pull up outside.

Santosh and Ratna sat in the back seat. Gowda got in and smiled at them. He pulled his phone out. ‘Hello, Stanley, we are on our way to the Inspector General's office. Where do we meet?'

Elsewhere, Michael and Urmila and their child welfare mates were headed to the chief secretary's office.

Gajendra looked at Byrappa. ‘Didn't you tell me you know a crime reporter at one of the Kannada newspapers?'

Byrappa nodded.

‘Call him,' Gajendra said. ‘Let's go talk to him. Let's tell him what we know.'

One way or the other, they would get Pujary. He would be stopped. Human life had to be valued. They had to believe in that. They needed to.

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A
s always I owe much to V.K. Karthika, editor, publisher and friend, for understanding why this book needed to be written, and her implicit faith in my writing.

Researching this book was perhaps one of the most difficult things I have done, and so much of the information that I collated and my understanding of the sordid world of child trafficking wouldn't have been possible without the support of the following people, all of whom work tirelessly to rescue and rehabilitate trafficked and abused children. I am indebted to them for making time for me despite their busy schedules, for letting me tag along in some instances, and for sharing information and true-life accounts:

Bosco Rescue Unit, Bangalore City Station

Nagamani V.S., Assistant Sub-inspector, Koramangala Police Station

Anita Kanhaiya, CEO, Freedom Project

Meena K. Jain, Former Chairperson CWC to Bangalore Urban

Brinda Adiga, Mentor,
GlobalConcernsIndia.org

Suja Sukumaran, Advocacy & Integration Support, Enfold Health Trust, Bangalore.

A CUT-LIKE WOUND

ANITA NAIR

The first in the Inspector Gowda Series

It's the first day of Ramadan in heat-soaked Bangalore. A young man begins to dress: makeup, a sari, and expensive pearl earrings. Before the mirror he is transformed into Bhuvana. She is a
hijra
, a transgender seeking love in the bazaars of the city. What Bhuvana wants, she nearly gets: a passing man is attracted to this elusive young woman-but someone points out that Bhuvana is no woman. For that, the interloper's throat is cut. A case for Inspector Borei Gowda, going to seed, and at odds with those around him including his wife, his colleagues, even the informers he must deal with. More corpses and Urmila, Gowda's ex-flame, are added to this spicy concoction of a mystery novel.

“I loved this book and was constantly gripped. Anita Nair's writing in some moments has photographic qualities, in others the precision of surgeon's scalpel; and always the great inner warmth of the human heart. Truly astounding writing.”

Peter James, author of
Dead Simple
and
Looking Good Dead

‘Anita Nair is a feminist and highly regarded Indian novelist.
A Cut-Like Wound
is as startling a debut crime novel as you are likely to read this year”

Sunday Times

“Nair captures the seedy side of shiny new India vividly, and Inspector Gowda – with his weary self-knowledge; his secret, wistfully aspirational biker tattoo; his stagnating marriage and his confusion when an old flame re-enters his life – is a welcome addition to the ranks of flawed-but-lovable fictional cops.”

Guardian

“Nair immerses her readers in Bangalore's alluring and sinister mélange of Hindu and Moslem cultures, revealing a people afflicted by the inability to allow unqualified praise for anything or anyone. Complex, psychologically deep characters are a plus.”

Publishers Weekly

ISBN 978 1908524 362

Crime Paperback Original

eBook ISBN 978 1908524 379

www.bitterlemonpress.com