Murder in Mumbai (8 page)

“You know the old man had one of the largest vintage collections.”

Almost on cue, Khurana entered.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “The traffic.”

“It's quite all right,” Jay replied. “We weren't here very long. Just admiring the room.”

“It's a shrine to my father. Untouched since he died.”

“He was a great man,” Jay said.

“So here I am,” Khurana said. “What do you want to ask me?”

For someone who did not grant interviews, Khurana deftly handled his questions. He was open where he needed to be: on information that was already out there—school, college, childhood, his father. Evasive when obfuscation was necessary: business, politics, the global economic climate, his rivals. And gracious at all times. He plied them with snacks, insisted they stay for a meal, and turned the interview into a conversation.

The day ended with a tour of the house. Khurana took them to his father's room where there were more photographs, the old man's bare bed, a bookshelf adorned with classical literature, Indian myths, and the collected works of Wodehouse.

“Your father liked Wodehouse?” Jay asked, amused at the seeming contradiction.

“He loved him. Especially Psmith.”

Jay scribbled more notes in the margin of his notebook.

“You have to remember,” Khurana said, “he was a child of the British Empire. And he was from a privileged background no matter how much he resented his own class. Some of the habits he picked up in England stayed with him for life, even if he sacrificed his suits for khadi.”

Next, they went to the room that was Kabir Khurana's when he was a boy. Books were neatly arranged on a shelf. There was one photograph: a passport-style photograph of a woman. Jay examined it.

“My mother,” Khurana said by way of explanation. “I never knew her. She died when I was very young.”

“Was it tough being raised by a single father?”

“Truth be told, I was raised by a series of aunts and nannies. My father belonged to India and the world. When I was young, I resented that he belonged to everyone but me. But as I've grown older, I've come to understand why he did what he did and why his work was important.” Jay eased the uncomfortable silence that followed by walking up to a cricket bat mounted on the wall.

“It's Wadekar's seventy-one team,” Khurana said. “In many ways, cricket remains my one true vice.”

“And it's a fine vice to have,” Jay said. “Do you ever go to a match?”

“Not anymore,” he said ruefully. “Time seldom permits it.”

They soon found themselves back in the room where they had begun their interview. Khurana pointed to various photographs and showed them documents from his father's time, in short doing everything except talking about himself. Jay was wise to it, but he had enough material for his story and let him continue to talk, hoping each word would add to a sense of familiarity among them.

“We're also doing a piece on Liz Barton,” Jay said. “What did you think of her?”

“Yes. Yes. Tragic business,” Khurana said. “Truth is I didn't know the woman very well. We met once or twice. Mostly business dealings. Still, no one likes to see anyone killed like that.”

Why did he lie?
Jay wondered. Their friendship was well-known, yet he was downplaying it. But he decided not to challenge it.

“In your brief meetings, did she ever talk about anything personal?”

“Nothing that I can recount. She was very business-like. That's one thing I like about Americans. They stick to the task at hand unlike us, who revel in questions about how our uncles and aunties are.”

Janet, who had gone exploring on her own, returned.

“Do you still keep your father's cars?” she asked.

“Ah, yes,” Khurana said with a twinkle in his eye. “They were my father's pride and joy. Would you like to see them?”

He led them through a side door to a garage. There, parked as far as the eye could see, stood row after row of old cars, their chrome grills shining, their Art Deco designs reminiscent of a long-gone elegant age. Jay stood and stared, as if motion or speech would defile the sanctity of this shrine to the automobile.

“Buick 1931 Series 50. 8-cylinder engine, 77 bhp, mechanical brakes, Delco-Remy ignition, Hotchkiss drive conventional transmission.”

Janet moved from vehicle to vehicle, rattling out names, years, models, specifications.

“1908 Woolsley, Maybech, Lagonda, Hodgekiss.”

She was oblivious to Jay's amusement.

“1938 Cadillac. V-8 engine. 135 bhp. Three-speed gearbox; and my favorite, a 1947 Packard Clipper Deluxe: the last year of the original design. 165 hp. Only 2,200 built.” She looked at Jay. “What? Can't a girl like cars?”

“Yes, of course you can. But that's more than liking cars,” Jay said. “That's obsessive.”

“My dad owns a garage,” she said, a tad self-conscious. “I grew up fixing them up.”

“So can you tell me what this is?” Jay asked, barely controlling his laughter. He was standing next to pre-liberalization India's car of choice, the Hindustan Ambassador, the elephantine car modeled on the Morris Oxford, and incongruous in this shrine to motoring.

“Very funny,” Janet replied, and began shooting pictures.

“Actually,” Khurana said, “that's the only one that's mine. It was my first car. It's all original parts and it never leaves this garage.”

“Then let me take a picture of you with it,” Janet said as Khurana blithely stood next to the vehicle.

Chapter 7

Gaikwad had risen early this morning, before the alarm rang, and took the stairs down to find his morning walking companion, Chitre, awaiting him. They'd walked for an hour. The sun was out already and he quickly worked up a sweat. The early monsoons had beguiled the city into forgetting the heat. Gaikwad cursed nature as he made his way home. His children were still asleep. Lata was up, waiting with coffee.

As with every case he worked on, he told her the details.

“Do you think he did it?” she asked him, standing close as he shaved, watching him carefully trim his thick mustache.

He assumed she was talking about John Barton, the dead woman's husband.

“Not sure,” he replied. She knew how he felt about her guessing who the murderer was.

But he knew that wouldn't deter her. It was an age-old routine they had with every case. He would discuss the basics of what happened, and she, though she knew he found it amusing, came up with her own theories and list of suspects.

“I saw that husband's photo in the paper,” she said. “He looks like a fishy sort.”

Gaikwad laughed. “You think everyone looks fishy.”

“No. No. He had shifty eyes. You can always tell a person by what's in their eyes.”

Gaikwad rinsed the remaining shaving cream off his face.

“What about the other woman?” Lata asked.

“I can't tell. She seems too upfront to be a killer. But you never know.”

“I bet they conspired together to kill his wife,” Lata said, completely ignoring Gaikwad's remark.

No matter how much he told her that murder was seldom about sitting in an English castle and eliminating suspects by the fireplace, Lata's suspicion shifted with each emerging character.

“I think he did it,” she would say. “I think it was her.” Or “I bet the truth is hidden somewhere.”

Gaikwad found it charming, but it also helped him go over the case in his own head. Look for possible motives; discover previously unseen things.

He had a big day ahead of him today—at least he hoped it'd be big. He was due to interview Vikram Hazra. But first he had to make his way through traffic and get to work.

* * *

The police station was slowly coming to life. The constables on the night shift languidly stretched before making their way to homes in far-flung suburbs, cursing the prospect of the impending bus or train ride. Gaikwad walked in past the saluting constable and made his way to his office. He took his place at the cluttered desk and browsed the paperwork to look for something pressing. There was nothing—but that could be because the night staff hadn't bothered to transcribe anything yet.

“Gaitonde,” he called, summoning the station's long-serving constable.

Gaitonde took his time, reveling in the knowledge that he'd been here longer than anyone and needed to hurry for no one. He looked at Gaikwad and thrust his head forward, as if to ask, “What?”

Gaikwad was used to this. “Anything happen at night?”

“No. It was quiet.”

“What do we have today?”

“Those people from the
mohalla
are coming to talk about some
danga
. Then there is a couple who has been wanting to get married.”

“Where from?”

“Rajasthan.”

“And?”

“That's it so far.”

* * *

A Mumbai police officer was much more than a sleuth. He was in many ways a community facilitator, a coaxer, a cajoler; someone who would talk to various religious groups and placate their various gods to ensure there was no violence; someone who could talk to a neighborhood elder to have a word with an errant teenager.

A police officer did all this—and solved crimes. And for every cop like Gaitonde, counting his days until retirement, or others who had enriched themselves for generations to come, there were many like Gaikwad for whom donning a uniform, coming to work, and ensuring that Mumbai remained the city its people desired was an all-consuming passion.

“Send the couple in,” he said.

He'd seen it a hundred times before: a young couple escaping their homes in the north, fleeing from the constraints of rigid caste and religious rules that forbade their relationships. The only place they could go to escape was Mumbai. It was the only place where they could get lost, where they could elude sometimes-murderous families. Mostly they wanted protection; sometimes they wanted to be married. A sympathetic police officer would always help.

The boy couldn't have been older than nineteen.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three, sahib,” he replied. His voice was timid. His head bobbed as he answered.

“And you?” Gaikwad asked, looking at the girl.

“Nineteen,” he replied.

“Did I ask you?” Gaikwad said, cutting him off.

“Nineteen, sir,” she replied, her eyes not leaving the floor.

“Come here to get married?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“Why not at home?”

“I'm from the gardener caste, sir,” he replied. “Her family are weavers. When they found out about us, they beat her. My father threatened to kill me.”

“You have your birth certificates?”

“Yes, sir,” the girl replied, gesturing to a plastic folder that she clasped tightly as if it held her most precious possession.

“
Theek hai
,” Gaikwad said. OK. “I'll write a note for you. Go to Bandra court and ask for Kode. Tell him I sent you. He'll register your marriage.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you,” the boy replied. He walked toward Gaikwad and tried to touch his feet, gesturing to his fiancée do the same. It was a mark of respect given to elders.

“Enough, enough,” Gaikwad said. “You're in Mumbai now. Just take care of each other. Go.”

As he watched them leave, Gaikwad could only hope that theirs would be a happy ending. He saw many cases like this each year. Not all of them ended well. It was quite common for the families involved to entice the couple back with promises of reconciliation, and then to kill them. Their misplaced sense of family honor and betrayal triumphed any love they may have felt for their children.

He looked at his watch. He had to see Hazra.

“Gaitonde,” he called. The constable waddled in.

“Tell the
mohalla
wallahs to come later.”

Gaitonde grunted in acknowledgment.

* * *

Vikram Hazra, the acting CEO of Mohini Resources, lived in an old art deco–style, five-story building on Marine Drive. Much of the city's new wealth had gone to the suburbs, to gleaming skyscrapers with swimming pools and marble foyers. But to those who lived in Bombay, Marine Drive represented the city's old wealth—a sort of status that was near impossible to attain even in an age when everything else was for sale.

Gaikwad would have preferred to meet Hazra at a more neutral venue, like work, but he had insisted that the interview would be conducted at his home.

“Do I need a lawyer present, inspector?” Hazra had asked.

“That's up to you, sir,” Gaikwad said. “We're just asking questions about Mrs. Liz Baar-Tone.”

The door was opened by a servant who led him in. Gaikwad's eyes immediately went to the balcony from where the Arabian Sea stretched to infinity. Gaikwad walked around the room, admiring the curios. Photographs of Hazra and presumably his family—shiny, happy, and smiling—at the Eiffel Tower, outside the White House, in Sydney adorned the mantel. Gaikwad looked at Hazra in the pictures. He looked tall, though that was usually tough to gauge from a photograph, broad, and needed to lose a few pounds. His hair was graying; he had a salt-and-pepper mustache. He dominated the photographs.

“I'm sorry to keep you waiting, inspector.”

Gaikwad turned around and saw the man in the photographs walk toward him.

“I'm Hazra.” His hand was outstretched. Gaikwad took it, and noticed his firm handshake, unusual in a culture where shaking hands isn't common. The man in front of him had lost the weight that he carried in the pictures. He was dressed in business casual: khaki pants and a blue shirt.

“Will you have anything to eat or drink?” Hazra asked.

“No thank you. I'd like to get straight to business.”

“What can I do for you?”

“As you know, we're in the midst of a murder investigation.”

Gaikwad looked for a tell, but Hazra didn't betray any emotion.

“Yes, tragic,” Hazra said. “Liz Barton was a valued colleague.”

“We'd like to ask you a few questions about her death.”

“Anything I can do to help.”

“What was your relationship with her?”

“She was my boss.”

“And you were comfortable with that relationship?”

“What do you mean?”

“We might live in a modern India, sir, but many men still dislike the idea of a woman on top.”

“Inspector, this is a corporate environment. Not a police station. People get ahead here because of their skills, not because of their gender.”

“I understand,” Gaikwad said. “But tell me, sir, what was she like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was she popular? Liked? Did she have friends, enemies? Was she close to anyone? A colleague, perhaps? Her relationship with her husband—that kind of thing.”

“My dealings with her were professional, inspector. So, it's hard for me to say. But the few times we did socialize—office parties, that kind of thing—she was very sociable. You know how these foreigners are. They're very comfortable in most settings. At work, she was the boss. She wanted everyone to call her Liz, but you know our culture. Most of the staff called her madam. But they seemed to respect her.”

“What about you? Did you respect her?”

“She was my boss.”

Gaikwad noticed he hadn't answered the question.

“What was your own relationship with her?”

“Cordial. Professional.”

“So you didn't socialize after work?”

Hazra smiled. “No, inspector. We did not.”

“Do you know of anyone who could gain by having her out of the way?”

“Again, no. Obviously, her death has been a great shock to all of us.”

“But you were her number two and you now have her job, right?”

Hazra continued smiling, but the look was no longer friendly.

“I do, yes. Anything else, inspector?”

“I've heard that you were passed over for the job that eventually went to her.”

“Not a secret, inspector. Check the business press. But would I kill someone for a job? No. You have to realize, inspector, that these foreigners come and go, but in the end we're the ones who choose to stay behind in the country. If not today, I would have gotten the job tomorrow or some other time.”

“So you were biding your time?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Did she have any enemies?”

Hazra paused.

“Inspector, in this line of work, especially at her level and mine, we don't really have friends. Sure, we get along with people, but no one gets close. But did she have enemies? It's hard to say.”

He was hiding something.

“Yes?” Gaikwad prompted.

“No, that's it. No enemies I can think of.”

“Are you sure, sir? This could be of crucial importance.”

Once again, he could see Hazra hesitate, and then just for an instant he thought he saw Hazra's expression soften before it hardened quickly once again into inscrutability.

“No, inspector. Nothing else.”

“Thanks for your help, Mr. Hazra. If you think of anything else, let us know.”

“Of course, inspector. It's a tragedy. We may have work rivalries, but no one expects something like this to happen.”

Gaikwad knew he was right, but all he had done so far was ask questions about this case. He really needed some answers.