Murder in Mumbai (7 page)

“Actually, I rarely watch the news,” he said. “I was watching an X-rated movie when you rang the bell. I muted the sound and changed the channel. CNN was on—that was what Liz watched.”

The explanation was inane enough to be true, Gaikwad thought. But he knew he could squeeze more information out of this man, information that he seemed reluctant (scared?) to share.

“We appreciate you helping us, sir,” Gaikwad said. “But for the time being don't leave town. We may have more questions.”

* * *

Gaikwad had appointments that morning and he told the constable to cancel them. They would have to wait for now. He phoned Uma Rhys. He had expected the call to be awkward, but the woman sounded more amused than anything to hear from him.

“Yes, inspector,” she said. “You can come now if you like.”

He detected a knowing smile at the end of the line. He had not raised the knowledge he had of her relationship with John Barton, but he didn't need to. Why else would anyone want to speak to her in connection with Liz Barton's murder?

Gaikwad did not consider himself a prude. People made decisions that they lived with all the time. They might not be decisions they were particularly happy with or proud of, but they were their decisions nonetheless. Infidelity was one of those decisions. He knew enough men, including friends, who had been unfaithful. That did not make them bad men. It did not even mean that they did not love their families. He once heard someone say that it was extremely difficult to consistently be a decent human being. And there was something to that. Most often it was a momentary lapse of reason; at worst it was a selfish act that could not be helped. But, he had to concede that most of the adulterers—he shuddered at the antiquated notion of the word—he knew were men. They usually boasted of their indiscretions when they had drunk too much. Still, though he did not condone it, he knew it was none of his business. But this woman was different. And her reaction to it was hardly embarrassed. She seemed blasé. Gaikwad did not know how to reconcile himself with that sort of a reaction. Was it sexist? Perhaps. Was his inbuilt Indian moral code kicking in? Probably.

His motorcycle pulled up in front of the skyscraper in Cuffe Parade. It was the sort of building that exuded the stench of wealth and power and immediately excluded those who did not reside within its walls. There was a hierarchical totem pole. The wealthiest residents, who had both money and power, lived at the top, and the top executives from the state-owned firms, who wielded more power than riches, lived near the bottom. This was in contrast to his own four-story building, which lacked an elevator. The lower floors were more prized there because of the convenience of walking up fewer flights. It was a uniquely Mumbai phenomenon.

Each flat in this building possessed a servant's quarter. A guard post at the gate with a watchman armed with a Doberman decided which vehicles and pedestrians could enter. The daily staff—gardeners, maids, drivers, vegetable vendors (because in India even the richest people like a good deal)—existed on a list and were checked off as they showed the building-issued ID card.

“Yes?” the guard asked Gaikwad.

“Rice,” Gaikwad replied.

“Who?” the guard asked.

“Uma Rice.”

“Oh! Rhys. Just a minute,” the watchman said, making it a point to reply in English.

The Doberman looked calm but alert. The guard called a number, but did not take his eyes off Gaikwad. Gaikwad could see him mutter into the receiver, but he could not catch what the man was saying. Soon, he replaced the receiver. “Madam will see you,” he said, still in English.

Gaikwad rode the elevator to the 23rd floor, near the top but not quite at the summit. The flats on the top six floors belonged, if gossip was to be believed, to diamond traders from Surat, whose modest white shirts and trousers belied their billions. The elevator ascended swiftly and quietly. The attendant pointed to the apartment in question, lest Gaikwad wander where he was not wanted. He rang the bell and waited. A servant opened the door. “Come in,” she said. He did not have to state his business.

He was led into a large living room with a balcony that overlooked the Arabian Sea. The floors were of marble; the windows were open and the temperature here was ten degrees lower than it was in the rest of the sweltering city. He noticed the artwork on the wall. They weren't prints. He pretended to browse the bookshelves, but nothing caught his attention except a couple of photographs of a striking woman whom he suspected to be Uma Rhys and a much older white man. They were both smiling and looked happy.

“Hello, inspector,” said the voice from behind him.

He turned around. She seemed more beautiful than in the pictures. She carried herself with the casual elegance and arrogance of the Indian rich, simultaneously disarming and dismissive.

“How can I help you?”

“I'm here to talk to you about Liz Barton's death.”

“And what do I have to do with that?” Her voice was teasing, even flirtatious.

Gaikwad was flustered, something he was not accustomed to.

“Don't worry, inspector. I don't want to embarrass you. I know you know about my relationship with her husband. And you're wondering if I—or John—killed her. Right?”

He could not have said it better himself.

“Yes. That's right.”

“Well, you don't have to worry. Much as I liked John, I like my husband more.”

“That's what everybody says, madam.”

“Yes. But the difference is my husband knows about my proclivities. You can ask him yourself. He's an older man. He's a kind man and he's understanding.”

Gaikwad felt even more embarrassed, more at his prudishness than anything.

“But you don't need to worry, inspector,” she continued. “I broke it off with John.”

“Why?”

“Are you married, inspector?”

“Yes,” he mumbled.

“Let me ask you then: Do you fantasize about other women?”

Gaikwad's discomfort was apparent. Uma's smirk did not leave her face.

The maid walked in with two cups of tea. She placed one in front of Gaikwad along with an assortment of biscuits. Gaikwad took a bite of the Bourbon biscuit, his favorite, and dipped the rest in the tea, delaying as long as possible the answer to her question. All he could think about right now was Lata and how she had proscribed biscuits from his diet.

“You don't need to answer that, inspector,” Uma Rhys said, laughing. “Your silence says a lot; besides, you're human. Now imagine you were in a relationship with another woman and it went from the excitement of clandestine meetings and sexual thrills to the banalities and drudgery of everyday problems. I assume your wife already does that for you. Why would you need another avenue for those talks? Do you see what I mean?”

“You mean your relationship with Mr. Barton had become routine?”

“In short, yes. I wanted excitement. With his wife's death, I knew he'd want a shoulder to cry on. That's not me.”

He appreciated her candor, even if he found it intimidating. “Were you with him on the night of the murder?”

“There—I can help you. Yes. We were at Madh Island; I have a house there.”

“And when did you come back?”

“We returned together. I dropped him off and continued on home.”

Gaikwad jotted down notes illegibly in his black notebook.

“Is there anything else you noticed about him or her?”

“Well, she was a cold fish. He was needy. Definitely wasn't getting what he wanted from her. But you know these Western types, they like the idea of a liberated woman until they want a cup of coffee—and their wives won't make one for them.”

“Do you think she had any enemies?”

“Hard to say. You know, there was that Gaja Kohli chap—everyone knows about his altercation with her. Then there was her number two at Mohini, Vikram Hazra.”

“Her deputy?”

“Yes. Word around the expat circuit is that he was passed over for promotion. And he was pissed.”

“Anyone else?”

“There's always Khurana.”

“Kabir Khurana?” Gaikwad asked.

“He lost that contract to Mohini. Rumor has it he was seething. But you know these billionaire-types, always smiling to mask whatever they are plotting behind the scenes.

“And, inspector, you know, all this is off the record. Don't use my name. I have to socialize with these people.”

He looked at her. She was still smiling, but he knew that her smile, too, belied the seriousness of her last comment.

“Of course, madam. Thank you for your help—and for the tea.”

Gaikwad closed the door behind him and rode the elevator down. He tried thinking of the case. His conversation with Uma only underscored that he'd have to talk to Hazra and Khurana.

* * *

Gaikwad knew there was little chance of a lowly inspector getting through to Kabir Khurana to question him in a murder inquiry, so he decided to go through his boss, DCP Adnan Khan.

“Are you sure he has links to her?” Khan asked.

“Yes, sir. I have it on good authority that they were close.”

“What does that mean? They were banging?”

“I don't know, sir,” Gaikwad said, wanting to laugh at the directness of the question. “But they apparently did spend a lot of time together.”

“OK. I'll make a few calls. Just be delicate. We don't want him complaining to the commissioner.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

An hour or so later, Gaikwad received a phone call.

“Inspector Vijay Gaikwad?”

“Speaking.”

“I have Mr. Kabir Khurana on the line and he'd like to talk to you.”

Gaikwad was not the kind of man to be intimidated by the prospect of a conversation with a man who could make or ruin his career, but he was curious what Khurana wanted.

“Inspector, this is Kabir Khurana.”

“Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

“I received word you wanted to talk to me, so I thought I'd call you first. Unfortunately, I'm on my way to Delhi to the meet the PM, so I can't entertain you right now, but you can ask me any questions you have over the phone.”

Gaikwad noticed—and he was supposed to notice—that the first thing Khurana did was mention his access to the country's prime minister. What he was proposing, of course, was highly irregular. But it was better than nothing. And as of now, Gaikwad was only trying to ascertain what happened to Liz Barton.

“Sir, I have a few questions about the Baar-Tone murder case.”

“Yes. Yes. Terrible business. What is happening to our city?”

“Sir, it has come to our attention that you were close to Mrs. Baar-Tone.”

“Close? I wouldn't say that.” Khurana's voice had a certainty to it. “We knew each other, sure, just as business people know each other, but we weren't close.”

“So you never met her, sir?”

“It depends what you mean by meet, inspector,” Khurana said.

Gaikwad could hear that he was enjoying himself.

“Were your interactions one-on-one or more in a public forum, sir?”

“A bit of both, inspector. But you know I wouldn't make a rush to judgment with either of those scenarios. I spend a lot of one-on-one time with my driver, but we're hardly close. I spend a lot of time with my board as a group, and I would say we're fairly close.”

“We've been told by several people that you shared a close relationship with her, sir,” Gaikwad said, hoping the statement wouldn't haunt him.

“Inspector, this is India,” Khurana said. “You know how people are. A man and a woman talk, and the next thing you know the rumor mills are working overtime.”

Still, there's no smoke without fire,
Gaikwad thought, but he realized this was going nowhere. He tried a different tack.

“So, from your assessment of her, sir, do you think she had any enemies?”

“It's hard to say, inspector. We live in bad times.”

Gaikwad was irritated by the fact that this man was not saying anything, but the inspector wasn't in a position to protest.

“Anything else you can think of, sir? Anything that might shed light on the case?”

There was a pause. “Honestly, inspector. I can't think of anything. I'm not sure where you got the idea that we were close. We were just associates.”

“My apologies, sir. And thank you for your time.”

Gaikwad knew that Khurana had been lying. But was it because he didn't want to be associated with the whiff of scandal or was it something else?

Chapter 6

Jay was sleeping the deep sleep that comes only at dawn when the ringing phone woke him.

His eyes still shut, Jay reached for his cell phone, groping for it on the nightstand until he found it.

“Hello,” he mumbled, his voice dripping with sleep.

“You're still sleeping. It's six thirty in the morning!”

“Hello, ma,” Jay said in reply, unsure if he wanted to have this conversation at this time.

“You haven't forgotten about your father's eye surgery, no?”

Crap
, Jay thought. He had forgotten. His father was getting laser surgery to remove a cataract in his right eye.

“Of course not, ma. It's on Saturday, right?” It was a stab in the dark.

“Yes, yes. Saturday. But be on time. There's construction near Andheri station. Someone has to wait in the car while your father is there.”

“I'll be there. Don't worry.”

“And what about the pooja? You're coming for the pooja, no?”

“What pooja?”

“What is wrong with you? The same pooja we have every year.”

“Oh yes. Of course. I'll be there,” he said, not wanting to prolong this conversation any further.

The
pooja
, or religious ceremony, was one observed annually in the Ganesh household to mark Guru Purnima, a day ostensibly to honor the family's spiritual guide. The Ganeshes, including Jay's mother, would never have called themselves religious. But religion pervaded not only the spiritual realm of people's lives, but also the cultural. It was, to put it mildly, everywhere: on the streets, in the form of street-corner temples and churches; the muezzin's call to prayer; giant swathes of the city blocked off for religious festivals ranging from Ganesh Chaturthi, to honor the elephant-headed god, to Ramadan, the Islamic holy month. And so, even if a family did not consider itself religious or visit a temple, mosque, or church regularly, religious occasions were an excellent occasion to meet old friends and family.

So it was with Mrs. Ganesh and her annual Guru Purnima festival.

“Make sure you're on time,” she bellowed. “Lots of people have been asking about you.”

Jay knew better than to ask what that meant. Invariably it meant that his mother had conspired to introduce him to some girl whom she hoped would make a good daughter-in-law. Jay avoided such occasions, but the pooja would be hard to miss. There would be consequences.

“No, no,” he replied. “I'll be there. Don't worry.”

“Of course you'll be there,” she replied. “Just don't be late. And remember Saturday—your father's eye surgery.”

“Ok, ma,” he said, but she'd already hung up.

Jay was half-amused, half-irritated when he put the phone down. His mother had to have the last word. And he could never say no to her.
Such an Indian failing
, he thought.

But while his father's procedure and the pooja were still a few days away, he had a more immediate task at hand: a fresh angle on the story of the burglaries. He would have to keep working that story until he interviewed Kabir Khurana later that day or fresh revelations emerged on the Barton murder.

One aspect of the burglaries puzzled him: Jay couldn't figure out how a perpetrator or perpetrators could walk unobstructed and undetected into apartment buildings and make away with so much.
The answers,
he thought,
must be obvious.
It could be that they were residents of the buildings in question, but that was too ridiculous to consider because that would mean an absurdly large gang that worked together in the area, and he knew from experience that if a gang were large, its members would have slipped up by now. No. It must be small. Perhaps one or two and no more than three people. Which would rule out residents because there would be too many of them given the number of buildings and the areas in which the crimes had been committed. Then who? Vendors or building staff who had access to the complexes? Possibly, but they would draw the scrutiny of the watchman had they behaved differently than they usually do. So it was likely a confident stranger—one who walked comfortably past the security guard and into the lift, and then the apartment and then made his way out. But how would he know where to go? How would he know when to go? How did he know that the apartment's residents were out? Why did he take electronics? What could you do with electronics? You can sell them in the black market. You can keep them at home. But so far seven homes had been affected and practically the same items had been taken: computers, some electronics, some jewelry. No thief was likely to hold on to all those items. Chances are he was going to sell them. That could be done in two places: Chor Bazaar—the thieves market—or Lamington Road.

He decided to start with Chor Bazaar.

* * *

Jay walked past young and old Muslim men, some with skullcaps, who eyed him warily. He saw groups of men stripping apart cars for their tires, carpets, engines, gear boxes, and steering wheels, all of which would be sold. The men doing the work paused briefly to watch him walk past. He made it a point not to look at them.

There was nothing you could not buy here. Schoolboys loitered around a sandwich wallah, men pulled handcarts with gunny sacks covering large blocks of ice that would later find themselves cubed, cooling the drinks in ritzy South Bombay; men, no older than boys, sat idly on scooters and chatted with one another or barked into cell phones; a lone goat walked by, unaware of its fate as the main ingredient in biryani; the call to prayer wafted through the air. Jay walked past storefronts that sold headlights, bicycles, exercise bikes, plastic mugs, past little boys eating snacks and past prying eyes. Men walked with their burqa-covered wives in tow. It was one of the few places in the city where you could still see young men who wore jeans and carried backpacks while they rode motorcycles to engineering colleges living side by side with religious and social orthodoxy. But the area was changing just like everything in Mumbai. Tall, poorly built skyscrapers hovered over the neighborhood like vultures awaiting the clearing of prime real estate. The city had changed so much, Jay thought. Soon, this area will go the way of others: unrecognizable and unremembered.

Jay walked to Trustwell Electronics; he knew the owner, Shakil Shah, who'd been in school with him.

“What's up, you bastard?” Shakil asked cheerfully, happy to see his old friend.

“The usual,
yaar
. Middle of a story and all that.”

“What'll you drink?
Thanda? Garam
?”

No was never an option. You could either have something cold—
thanda—
or something hot,
garam
.

“Chai. No sugar,” Jay said. He'd long stopped counting, but this was the third of his nearly dozen cups of tea during the day.

“
Chottu, do chai lana
,” Khan shouted to an invisible subordinate.

“How's business, man?” Jay asked.

“Usual,
yaar
. You know how it is. Sometimes up. Sometimes down. Sometimes it can be tough even in Chor Bazaar.” He laughed.

Jay could not help but notice the changes in his boyhood friend. Shakil had been a star athlete and student, one of a legion of Indian boys destined for a career in medicine or engineering. Instead, after his father's sudden death, he took over the family business right after graduating with a degree in mechanical engineering. Now, he sat behind the counter for at least twelve hours a day, much like his father had. His hair had turned prematurely gray; his stomach was prosperously protruding. It was hard to believe they were the same age.

“So tell me,” Shah said, “what brings you here? Can't be the
kheema
.” (Mincemeat.)

“Actually, I need some information.”

“What kind?”

“I'm looking into some thefts.”

“Thefts? Leave that stuff to the police,
yaar
. Why do you want to get involved?”

Before Jay could say anything, a little boy came with two shot glasses of tea. Each man took one, blew into it to cool it down, and took a sip.

“So, how are your parents?” Shah asked.

“Good,
yaar
. They ask about you. And how's the missus and the kids?”

“Good. Good. Mariam is going to be in the seventh standard. Don't know where time goes.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“OK, bhai, I know you're a busy man. Tell me what you want to know.”

“I'm looking for stolen electronics.”

Khan laughed. “You've come to the right place.” The area's reputation preceded itself. “What would you like? iPads? I know a guy with fresh stock.”

Jay ignored his question. “I'm looking for goods sold on these particular dates.” Jay handed him a note, which Shakil examined from atop his black plastic-rimmed glasses. “Can you also check your store in Lamington Road?”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“I appreciate it, and I'll owe you one.”

He drained the chai, made small talk with his old friend and looked at his watch. It was almost time for his interview with Khurana.

* * *

Jay headed back to the newsroom where he was supposed to meet Janet and head to the old Khurana family home for the promised interview. Kabir Khurana preferred to conduct his few interviews there instead of the apartment building where he lived. Jay had been to the family home before, many years earlier, to talk to Khurana's father, the revered independence-era leader Khulbushan Khurana, for the newspaper.

The elder Khurana was known for his loyalty to Gandhi and had immersed himself in the freedom struggle against the British. The old man had been dying and Jay, then a trainee journalist, was sent to interview him for an upcoming Independence Day special supplement. Jay had been nervous. It was his first big interview. He did not want to disappoint—yet he felt intimidated. He was meeting someone he had read about in history books, whose name adorned roads and buildings. He was so old in fact that most people assumed he was dead, a relic of the past that the new India had no time for. Khurana lived in the old family house near Chowpatty, in a street long forgotten by developers, adorned by Laburnum trees that lined both sides. It seemed incongruous in Mumbai's dizzying pace and dearth of space.

Jay did not know what to expect when he rang the bell. Usually, when he went to interview someone famous, he would be ushered in by a servant who'd then be dispatched to produce a cup of tea or, if it was hot, as it often was, a Thums Up—the Indian cola—or a Limca. But in this case, no one came to the door. He tried the bell again.

“Coming.” He could barely discern the voice.

He could hear a struggle with the lock. The door opened. It was Khurana. He looked younger than his ninety years. Not an ounce of fat on him. The man in front of him looked like an older version of the photograph in all the textbooks.

“Are you from the paper?” His accent was British, the kind you never heard anymore except in Pathé newsreels.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you'd better come in. Will you have some tea?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.”

“Join me in the kitchen then,” the old man replied. “I'll have some, too.”

Jay did not know how to react. Here he was with one of India's most famous independence-era leaders who was making him tea—certainly odd in a country that lives by the dictum, “Why do anything if you can have others do it for you?” Should he offer to take over? He wasn't sure.

“Sir, can I help in any way?”

“No. No. Just sit. How many sugars?”

“Two, sir.”

“You must watch your sugar intake, son,” he said. “It leads to weight gain.”

They began talking. The old man regaled him with stories about the freedom movement, his interactions with Gandhi and Nehru and Jinnah and the Mountbattens. Jay thought he got some excellent quotes for a profile. An hour and a half later, he thanked the man and left, returning to the office. He was so excited, he went straight to his machine and wrote eight hundred words that came out effortlessly and sent it to his editor.

“Good piece,” came the e-mail reply. “But it's not running. Afsana did a roundup of movie stars and what independence day means to them. Come in early tomorrow. You're on the phones.”

Today, after all these years, Jay was standing again outside the house. This time Janet was with him. Jay felt instantly comfortable when they entered the large house on Laburnum Road, just a few houses down from the house Gandhi used to live in when he was in the city.

A servant had opened the door and let them in.

“Sahib will be here shortly,” he said.

Jay could not help noticing the contrast from when the older Khurana opened the door himself. Janet and he had gone over their notes, but talked little inside the room where they perused the mementos and collected their thoughts. Janet set up a tripod and adjusted lenses to take some stock images of the room. Jay looked around. It seemed to have been preserved in a time capsule. Behind glass-covered shelves lay photographs of the old man with Gandhi, Nehru, Jinnah, and even King George VI. There were also pictures of the old man with people neither Jay nor Janet recognized.

“Take a picture of that shelf,” Jay told Janet, who happily pointed her viewfinder toward the shelf and clicked away with the trigger-happy abandon of someone with a digital camera. A servant came in with a tray on which rested two cups of piping-hot tea and a plate of biscuits.

“Can I get you something else?” he asked.

“Thank you. No,” Jay replied, helping himself to a Marie biscuit. “Is Khurana sahib here?”

“He should be here any minute. He just phoned to apologize.”

“I wonder if we'll get to see the cars,” Janet said.

“The cars?” Jay asked.

The cars—antiques and vintage models—were the senior Khurana's pride and joy, his respite from the socialism and penury he espoused against the British.