Compass Box Killer (16 page)

There, in the cold, damp room in Khandala, Virkar had the hottest sex he had ever had in his life.

T
he killer sat hidden on the thick tree branch listening to the sounds of lovemaking emanating from the window below him.

He had waited until dusk had fallen and, using the cover of darkness, made his way through the thicket of trees outside Katrak Villa towards the only window that was lit up. The thick foliage outside the window had served him well, allowing him to climb up to a vantage point on the tree trunk from which he could see directly into the room. Not satisfied, he had crawled on to a branch that hung above the window till he could hear the voices of Virkar and Raashi inside the room. As luck would have it, he had just been in time to hear Virkar’s findings.

He had frozen, his limbs turning to lead. He felt as though a huge crushing weight was squeezing the life out of him. He waited for the feeling to pass, wondering why he felt this way when he had always known that something like what Virkar had described had happened to Tracy.

His mind reeled back nine years to when he had arrived at the Lonavala railway station early one evening. Without wasting any time, he took an autorickshaw to Khandala Police Station. Clutching the small newspaper clipping about Tracy’s accident, he made his way to the entrance, only to run directly into the guard.

‘Kai paije? What do you want?’ the constable on duty said rudely, stopping him. He showed the newspaper clipping to the constable. ‘I’ve come to enquire about this case.’ The constable grabbed the clipping from his hand and glanced at it. Then the policeman sneered. ‘And how are you concerned with his case? Who are you to the victim?’

‘I…I…’ he trailed off, trying to find the right words to explain his relationship with Tracy. Finally he chose something that was closest to what he felt. ‘I’m her well-wisher.’

The constable dropped his sneer and replaced it with incredulous laughter. ‘A well-wisher! You!’

‘Yes,’ he answered, choosing not to respond to the man’s derision.

‘Well then, Mr Well-Wisher, what’re you doing here? Why aren’t you at her funeral?’

‘Funeral?’ Suddenly, the finality of her death hit him like a hard slap across his cheek. Without wasting any more time, he opened his wallet, took out the hundred-rupee note that was carefully folded inside and handed it to the constable. ‘Where?’

On seeing his reaction, the constable suddenly realized that there might actually be some connection between him and Tracy and decided to stop laughing at him. ‘The Christian Cemetery,’ he said instead, swiftly pocketing the money.

The killer turned and rushed out of the police station compound towards the nearest autorickshaw stand. Waving one down, he promised the driver an extra fifty rupees if he increased his speed. He reached the Christian Cemetery in twenty minutes.

A chowkidar was stamping his feet and warming himself by a small fire beside the iron gates of the cemetery.

This time, the killer was ready. ‘I’m Tracy Barton’s well-wisher. Please tell me where the funeral is.’ The chowkidar took one look at his dishevelled state and decided he was telling the truth.

The chowkidar pointed at a path that led deep inside the cemetery to where Tracy’s grave was being dug. ‘Walk down this path for five minutes and you’ll come to a marble cross. Take a left from there and walk for a couple of minutes more, you’ll find it.’

The killer entered the cemetery and looked down the path that led through the rows of old graves. Dusk had fallen by now. A sudden wind swept past the cemetery unannounced, making the leaves in the trees flutter ominously and he gulped, feeling a sudden chill. As he began to walk down the path, he heard the chowkidar call out from behind him. ‘Hurry!’

He whipped around, his heart missing a beat.

The chowkidar called out again. ‘Hurry! The coffin might be in the ground already.’

The killer lowered his head against the wind, tightened the strap of his backpack and increased his pace. A few minutes later, he was at the marble cross. He turned left, directly into the path of the blowing wind. In the failing light, he could make out some figures moving in the distance. He quickened his pace, now practically running. As he neared the moving figures, he noticed a thickset man standing in front of two men who were shovelling the last bits of loose earth on a mound in front of a wooden cross. Remembering Tracy’s description, he was quite sure that the thickset man was Nigel Colasco.

Colasco took out a mobile phone and dialled a number. He spoke into the phone almost immediately: ‘You don’t have to worry anymore. It’s all taken care of.’ The wind blowing towards him carried Colasco’s words loud and clear. The killer had been about to call out to them to stop and wait for him, but no words came out of his mouth. But one of the men, sensing an unwanted presence, turned in his direction. Luckily, the killer gathered his wits by then and lay flat on the ground between two graves, his ears straining to hear every word Colasco spoke. As the killer watched, the two men shovelled the last bits of earth on to the mound while keeping a sharp lookout for any intruder.

Colasco handed a wad of notes to the two men and waved them away. The men turned in the direction of the cemetery’s gate and receded into the night. Colasco resumed his phone conversation, his voice carrying clearly over the wind to the killer. ‘Of course I’m sure! I’m standing over her grave. Bhandari has been paid off, and so has Akurle. I’ve got all the documents with me. According to them, she died in a car accident, the car that she borrowed for me, and I, as her closest friend and well-wisher, conducted the funeral and laid her to rest.’ The killer saw Colasco walk back in the direction of the iron gates while listening to the person on the other end of the phone. ‘Yes, may she rest in peace,’ Colasco said before hanging up.

The killer had felt a massive urge to run to the freshly dug grave, but he knew that the chowkidar would tell Colasco about his arrival, so he lay there on the grass for a few hours, blending with the earth, lying almost as still as the people lying below the graves. He remained so well hidden that all the attempts of the chowkidar and Colasco—who soon returned to find him—proved unsuccessful. The killer heard their hurried footsteps and snippets of their furtive conversation while he lay pressed to the cold ground. Colasco and the chowkidar continued with their search, wondering where the ‘intruder’ had vanished. When they finally left, he could only assume that they were looking for him frantically because Colasco was scared that his telephone conversation might have been overheard by him.

After all these years, the killer still remembered how terrified he had been that night. If these ruthless men could have put kind, angelic Tracy into the ground without any compunction, he could only imagine how easy it would have been for them to do the same to him. He had wet himself as that thought crossed his mind. Somewhere in the middle of the night, he had got up from his hiding place, and in the meagre light of the waxing moon, climbed over the cemetery’s wall and ran…running until his chest felt as though it would explode. Then he had slowed to a brisk walk, not stopping till he reached a small town somewhere down in the valley.

The sun had risen to reveal that he was in Khopoli. Thereafter, a bus had taken him to Mumbai and a train had taken him back home.

Now, nine years later, he was back, lying as still as a dead man on the branch of a tree while he finally heard another person voice the sordid details of a truth he had always known.

The killer moved back into the dense foliage. Taking care not to make even the slightest sound, he slid to the ground. Slithering into the thicket behind Katrak Villa, he disappeared.

Mumbai

A
dvocate Kirit Shah had his consultation chambers on the third floor of Taiyabji Terrace, a small building on Rope Walk Lane, off Rampart Row, Kala Ghoda. From his chambers he found it extremely convenient to access the High Court of Bombay, where he pleaded cases for his corporate clients. For many years, he had maintained a routine of leaving the High Court sharp at the 5.00 p.m. closing time and walking back to his chambers to begin conducting client meetings from 5.15 p.m. onwards.

As was his habit, he was climbing up the stairs of Taiyabji Terrace at 5.12 p.m. when he was accosted by a young man, who, from his appearance, looked like some kind of a legal professional.

He smiled at Shah. ‘Hello, sir, I’m Anay Vansode. I was your student five years ago when you used to lecture at the Government Law College. Don’t you remember me?’

‘Ah, yes…I remember,’ lied Shah, not wanting to show that he had no memory of the young man. He was bad with faces and names. In any case, this was a usual occurrence; people who had been his students at some time or the other were constantly stopping him in the vicinity of the High Court.

‘Come walk with me and tell me what it is that you want,’ said the advocate, not wanting to waste precious minutes. The rich litigants waiting for him in his chambers were his priority.

‘Sir, I have a small NGO called Jhopadpatti Children Sudhaar Sanstha; we partner up with Slum Baalak Suraksha for many schemes.’

Advocate Shah stopped. ‘Ah, okay, you work with Nigel’s NGO. He was my close friend.’

‘Yes, sir, I believe so,’ replied the man.

‘Poor Nigel. What a way to go!’ said the advocate, shaking his head.

‘Sir, he is gone, but his going has created a financial crunch for us. We were dependent on him for financial aid. Now we need to find some funds quickly if we are to carry on our work.’

Shah frowned. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘Well, you’re the person who manages all the legal affairs for Slum Baalak Suraksha, aren’t you?’

The advocate looked wary. ‘Yes, yes…but just come to the point. I’ve got people waiting for me. What is it that you want?’

‘To cut a long story short, can you please arrange a meeting with the financial contributors who finance Slum Baalak Suraksha? I can plead our case independently.’

Advocate Shah had by now reached the door to his chambers. He turned and looked the young man straight in the face. He held his gaze for a long moment. ‘Vansode, is it?’ he asked finally.

The young man nodded.

Advocate Shah took out a crisp visiting card and handed it to the young man. ‘Give me a call after a couple of days. I’ll try to fix up some meetings for next week. I have people waiting for me now. Please excuse me,’ he nodded and swiftly walked through the door.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Shah dashed through his crowded waiting room, paying no heed to the anxious faces that looked up at him. He ran into his office and all the way to his private chamber. Shutting and locking the door behind him, he sat down. He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled a number. After three rings, the phone was picked up on the other side.

‘Crime Branch headquarters,’ a voice said.

‘I want to speak to the person in charge of the Compass Box Killer case… Inspector Virkar, isn’t it?’

‘Sir, Inspector Virkar is not—’

‘Please connect me to Inspector Virkar. I want to speak to him immediately. It’s a matter of life and death,’ shouted Advocate Shah into the phone, his brow moist with sweat.

‘Please hold on,’ said the man on the other end.

A couple of excruciating minutes later, a deep, throaty voice said, ‘Inspector Virkar here.’

‘Inspector, I’ve just met the Compass Box Killer.’

Virkar had returned that morning from Khandala after having spent the previous night holed up in the room at Katrak Villa with Raashi. They had discussed the case threadbare between unending bouts of lovemaking. They would still be there had it not been for the fact that, early in the morning, he had received a text from ACP Wagh asking him to report back to the Crime Branch for filing the paperwork required to fully handover the case. He had been toiling through the case papers when the constable on duty had summoned him to answer Advocate Shah’s call.

Now, seated in the soft, cushioned leather seat normally reserved for the well-heeled clientele that visited Advocate Shah, Virkar looked into the eyes of the lawyer who was still trembling with fear.

‘But how can you be so sure that it was him?’ asked Virkar.

‘Please, Inspector. I’ve been a lawyer for over twenty-five years and those years haven’t been spent in vain.’

But Virkar persisted. ‘Are you sure it was him?’

Shah explained, ‘I can say it with full surety. Although, I don’t practice criminal law, I follow criminal cases very closely, and this case is of my friend Nigel’s murder. Of
course
I remember the police sketch of the alleged killer.’

Virkar rubbed his jaw. ‘But why would he come to you asking to arrange meetings for him?’

‘To get me to some secure location and kill me, of course!’

Virkar raised his hand. ‘Relax, sir. If he wanted to kill you, you would be dead already. He obviously just wanted the information that he asked for.’

‘I’m just Nigel’s friend and a legal advisor to his NGO. Sometimes I help draw up papers to help foreigners and NRIs adopt slum children. But I do all this pro bono—free of cost. I’m not involved in raising funds or dealing with the contributors themselves.’

‘Hmm…you knew Nigel Colasco for a long time?’ said Virkar, rubbing his chin.

‘Well…yes. He was my classmate at the Government Law College but I lost touch with him after we graduated. Later, when my wife and I learnt we could not have children, I reconnected with Nigel. I’d heard about the work he was doing and thought he could help us.’ The advocate paused and stared into the distance. ‘He helped us adopt a beautiful baby boy. Nigel was a rakhi-brother to my wife and the godfather of my ward.’