Murder in Mumbai (13 page)

“What did he say?”

“For a long time he didn't say anything. I thought maybe he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open. He's done that before. Not easy being close to a hundred. But then he sighs, looks up at me, and says, ‘That boy was bad news.'”

“Oh?”

“At the time he went to school, it was a boarding school with some day scholars who came in. Khurana was a boarder, even though he was from Bombay, because of his mother's ill health, and his father's long jail sentences, and possibly his peccadilloes.”

“So what did he do?”

“Casale wouldn't go into details, but he did say, and I'm quoting him, ‘He was a cruel boy.'”

“What does that mean?”

“He wouldn't say. I tried to prod him, but he just wouldn't say. He said there were several incidents over the years, but one final one that broke the proverbial camel's back. They called in his father and told him he would have to find an alternate school for his son. A week later, he was packed off to England and the older Khurana was back in jail.”

“What happened then?”

“Nothing. A few years later, Kabir Khurana came back to Bombay, took over the ailing family business, and turned it into a global conglomerate.”

“That sounds like Khurana all right.”

“Yes. But that's what Casale told me.”

“Not much to go on. You think he'd be averse to talking to me?”

“Short answer, yes. But he never turns down an old boy. He loves the school and the boys it produced.”

“Except Khurana, apparently,” Jay said.

“Yeah, except him.”

“Will you take me to see him?”

“Sure. But why? You've done your story on him. You're investigating thefts, right?”

“I'm always looking for a story, Sandy, you know that. Besides, there's something about his guy. He's too . . .” Jay groped for a word.

“Too clean?”

“Yes. Squeaky clean. No one's that clean.”

Chapter 13

Gaikwad's first stop this morning was the city; he was due to meet his boss, DCP Adnan Khan. Gaikwad liked Khan. He was quiet and stayed out of the way. He gave his men leeway to solve crimes and backed them to the hilt when things went wrong, which they often did. But this was India; there was only so much even a supportive boss like Khan could do. Besides, Khan belonged to the Indian Police Service and could be transferred to another job; Gaikwad, on the other hand, belonged to the state police and was here to stay. This murder was getting too much attention in the media. Half-truths, outright lies, and bits of information supposedly known only to the investigating team were being printed in the papers and recited like the Gospel truth on television by reporters who looked young enough to be his children. Gaikwad knew Khan was under pressure from his own bosses—especially those of the political variety—and he was on his way to the DCP's office to give him a rundown on the investigation.

His cell phone rang.

“Gaikwad,” he barked.

“It's Jay Ganesh.”

“Yes, Jay?”

“Can we meet this afternoon?”

“For what purpose?”

“I'd like to know how the case is going.”

“Which case?”

“Come on inspector, we've been through this. I gave you information on the burglaries. You give me information on the murder. I won't print anything without your say-so.”

Gaikwad still wasn't sure. Finally, he said, “OK. Where?”

“Apsara. Noon.”

* * *

The restaurant was on Linking Road, surrounded by high rises and the glitzy malls that were popping up all around the city. Even at this time in the afternoon, the roads were packed. It was hot, and Gaikwad found himself sweating in his khaki uniform.
Perhaps
, he thought
, I should start wearing civilian clothes.
Students from nearby colleges milled about. Boys sat on walls eyeing girls who walked down the road, consciously ignoring their gaze. Students huddled in clusters with their textbooks, arguing over something they'd been taught; young couples shared stolen moments, conjuring up a semblance of privacy in a land that gave them none; families alighted from their imported cars—not Japanese, but German—and escaped into the air-conditioned comfort of the store, which, once inside, would be hard to distinguish from any in the West—even the models in the ads were Caucasian. Amid all this stood Apsara, a vestige of a more obviously sleazy era, oblivious of the world around it, the last refuge for men who sought solitude for one reason or another. Gaikwad climbed the stairs (the lower section was being prepared for the evening entertainment, a dancing girl named Maya). The space was poorly lit, with a low overhanging lamp above each table. Paintings above the tables showed women in the Mughal art style. Across the room, just in front of the kitchen, lay a small shrine to Lord Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, attached to a hook on the wall. An incense stick blew thin wisps of sandalwood-scented smoke.

Gaikwad immediately saw Jay at the far corner. He was sipping a beer.

Jay looked up at him and smiled. “Inspector, drink?”

“Too early for me. Besides, I'm on duty.” But looking at that frosted glass, and thinking of the heat outside, all he wanted right now was a sip.

“So what do we have?” Gaikwad said as he sat down, wasting no time on pleasantries. He picked up the menu on the table and perused it: He could visualize his thickening arteries.

The waiter arrived.

“Tandoori Chicken,” Gaikwad said.

“Chicken korma,” Jay added. “And bring an assortment of rotis and naan.”

The waiter nodded and walked away. Gaikwad looked at Jay.

“I may have information that may be relevant to you,” Jay said.

“Then I'm interested in hearing it.”

“Not so easy, Gaikwad sahib. Tell me what you have on the murder.”

“We can't let details like that out. You paper wallahs are printing all sorts of garbage about this case.”

“Have you seen anything in my paper that is false? Have you seen my name on any of those stories?” There were few things that annoyed Jay Ganesh more than the sweeping generalization that all journalists were unreliable hacks who would print any half-truth in order to get attention. He knew some crime reporters acted as fronts for certain gangs, arranging deals with rival gangsters, tipping off criminals before police raids, but he wasn't one of them. His indignation must have shown on his face. Gaikwad looked apologetic.

“I didn't mean you,
yaar
. This case is a pain in the arse.”

Jay took the last sip of his golden beer when the waiter arrived with their orders. The chicken korma was swimming in oil; the tandoori chicken looked unappetizing, as if the masala on it hadn't quite been cooked.
Oh the hell with it,
Gaikwad thought.
If the food's going to be awful, I might as well have a drink.

“One Haywards,” he told the waiter.

“Make that two,” Jay said, smiling.

It was as they dug into their meal, Jay seemingly oblivious to the quality of his food, that Gaikwad realized the journalist was probably a bachelor. This, to Jay, was regular food. For a moment, he felt bad for Jay.

“This is excellent,” Jay said, looking up at him enthusiastically. “Inspector, you should try some. But also tell me more about the case.”

Gaikwad gave him a rundown of what he had. His questioning of Barton, Hazra, and Kohli. His phone conversation with Khurana and the fact that he was planning to meet him. Jay listened to him silently. He did not take notes, lest the policeman was put off by the idea of being on the record. Each bit of relevant information was tucked away within the recesses of his mind from where it would be summoned when he had to write a story.

“OK. That's it from me,” Gaikwad said. “What do you have for me?”

“Do you know Eagle Services?”

“Yes,” Gaikwad replied. “Chhota Mirchi's attempt to attract a better class of criminal.”

Jay could not help but be amused by that apt description.

“What about it?” Gaikwad asked.

“I saw your Vikram Hazra coming out of it.”

“So what?”

“So obviously it must be something important. Why would he go himself? Someone like him risking his reputation when all he had to do was send an underling.”

“Fair point. But that doesn't mean he did anything to the American woman.”

“I didn't say it did, but it's an awful big coincidence given the timing of this case.”

Gaikwad had to acknowledge Jay was right. “OK,” he said. “I'll look into it. What else do you have?”

“At this point it's only a rumor.”

“Rumors are always good, as long as we can substantiate them.”

“It's about Kabir Khurana. He was in my school. There's a scandal involving him, and I'm meeting an old priest later today who can tell me more.”

“That doesn't tell me anything.”

“I just wanted to keep you posted—and remind you that I have first dibs on this story when it breaks.”

“OK, OK,” Gaikwad said. But he cursed the entire journalistic profession as a bunch of leeches.

* * *

As he headed back toward Nariman Point for a meeting with Kabir Khurana, Gaikwad wished he hadn't eaten that chicken, hadn't had that drink, hadn't met Jay Ganesh. And he wished that DCP Adnan Khan were conducting this interview instead.

Like everyone in the city, he'd heard of Kabir Khurana. But knowing a man by reputation and speaking to him on the phone was one thing, meeting him and questioning him about a murder was an entirely different matter. And then there was that element about the city's nawabs
that he couldn't quite put his finger on: Was it a disdain for the laws of the land; a disdain for people like him? Certainly, they possessed a casual arrogance that they didn't hide. It was almost as if they were trying to say they were too important to talk to you.
But,
he thought,
I shouldn't categorize Khurana before I meet him.
It was important to have an open mind.

Gaikwad walked into the lobby of the Express Tower building. Security was tight. A rent-a-cop wanded those who entered. Gaikwad, probably because of his uniform, was given a free pass. This would normally irritate him because it showed a flaw in the security system, but today he was glad for it. He got into the elevator and went to the top floor where Khurana had his office.

A secretary acknowledged him and asked him to wait a few minutes.

“Mr. Khurana is in a meeting,” she said. “He apologizes for the inconvenience.”

Gaikwad sat on the leather couch and leafed through the newspaper on the table. He'd already browsed through the news today. There was nothing else that caught his eye.

He fidgeted until the secretary caught his attention.

“He's waiting for you,” she said, and went back to whatever she was doing.

Gaikwad entered the office. Khurana rose to shake his hand. He was dressed simply.

“How can I help you, inspector?” he asked. “And what will you have to eat or drink?”

“Nothing for me, sir. I just had lunch. And thank you for seeing me.”

“I was curious what the police would want with me,” Khurana replied. “I thought we'd taken care of everything on the phone.”

“Well, sir, it's a murder investigation and we are still making inquiries.”

Khurana paused and took a deep breath. “Yes, a very unfortunate business,” he said. “One never likes it when something like this happens to one's colleagues.”

“Sir, I have to ask you again—what was your relationship with her?”

“I told you, inspector. We were acquaintances. Nothing more.”

“Sir,” Gaikwad said, “we have it on good authority from more than one person that you enjoyed a close relationship with her.”

“What are you implying, inspector?” His tone didn't change; neither did his expression.

“Just what I learned, sir,” Gaikwad continued. “You were spotted with her several times. At cafés, restaurants. And yet when I asked you about it, you denied everything.”

Khurana paused and took a breath.

“OK,” he said. “We were close. You have to understand . . .”

The composure dissipated.

“We were friends. Not more than that. We would talk. I liked spending time with her. She was intelligent, charming, beautiful. But it was nothing more than that. Mainly we discussed business, the business climate in India.

“She was having some issues with the bureaucrats in Delhi and I told her how to circumvent it.”

“Any reason why anyone would want to hurt her?”

“I can't think of anything, inspector. Naturally, I was devastated when I heard. Who could do such a terrible thing? And it sends such a bad message to the foreign investment community. Not to pick on you, inspector, but safety is becoming a problem in this city.”

Gaikwad let the comment slide. The police were the first to be blamed for anything that went wrong. It was as if the city's residents had forgotten that they too were part of society and if the city had become unsafe and the force crooked, it reflected on the citizenry as much as it did the police department.

“But she was getting threats, inspector,” Khurana continued.

“Yes. We are aware of that. Did they frighten her?”

“To tell the truth, no.”

“Did she suspect anyone?”

“She didn't trust Vikram Hazra, but she didn't think he could threaten her. She said he didn't have it in him.”

“What about Gaja Kohli?”

“Ah,” Khurana said. “Gaja.”

“You know him then?”

“We studied together in America, inspector.”

“And did you know of his campaign against her?”

“Yes. In fact, I advised her to strike a deal with him,” Khurana said. “Let's just say I know Gaja to be a very flexible man.”

“And did he prove to be flexible?”

“I don't know the answer to that, inspector. The next thing I knew she was dead.”

Gaikwad paused and re-examined his notes for what seemed like an eternity. He collected his thoughts.

“What was your relationship with her husband, sir?”

“Ah, that's a little complicated, inspector,” Khurana said.

“Why?”

“He thought we were having an affair.”

“And were you?”

Khurana looked Gaikwad right in the eyes. “No, inspector. I told you. No. Was I attracted to her? Yes. But she was married to her job.”

Khurana looked at his watch.

“Well, inspector, if you don't mind, I have another meeting soon.”

“Of course. Of course, sir,” Gaikwad said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“It's my duty as a citizen, inspector. And tell me who your DCP is?”

“Adnan Khan, sir.”

“Khan—yes, a good man. I'll bring both you and him up in my next meeting with the inspector general and the chief minister. Tell them what a good job you boys are doing.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I always take care of those who look after us, inspector.”

* * *

Outside, workers were streaming out of their offices, walking with their briefcases, purses, and bags toward Churchgate station, where they'd take the train home. The sun was low on the horizon, imparting a pink tinge to the water. Gaikwad walked toward his bike, assessing his interview with Khurana. The man had been forthright once he knew he'd been caught lying. But there was that bit in the end when he brought up the inspector general and the chief minister: almost as if he were reminding Gaikwad that he was well-connected. Was that a warning or was he merely making conversation?

Gaikwad knew he would have to dig deeper to find answers. This was like playing a slow game of chess. Gaikwad was usually a patient man, but the fact there were few leads was beginning to annoy him. He wanted answers—and he wanted them fast.