Murder in Mumbai (9 page)

Chapter 8

Jay's desk was cluttered with papers and books, a long-cold glass of tea sat next to a stained, idle wooden coaster, a dog-eared novel lay quietly beside a set of keys and a cell phone that almost ceaselessly vibrated. The area around Jay's laptop was the only one that was relatively uncluttered. Outside, reporters and editors tapped away furiously on their keyboards, their eyes never wavering from the screen; phones rang incessantly. Although smoking had been banned in the newsroom a decade or so ago, the smell of tobacco rested heavily in the air.

Jay was reviewing the notes from his interview with Khurana. Manisha had been pleased with the effort and planned to give it prime placement. Although Khurana didn't share any new bits of information, the fact that he confirmed what was until now only conjecture about his past and his business deals was important. Jay's piece was newsy. He had pre-empted Manisha's order and added bits of personal information—though personally he found them irrelevant. But he could hear her voice: “That's what our readers want to know. What he drives—not what his strategies are.” And she was right. India's aspirational middle class loved to know personal details of the powerful in the hopes they too could replicate it in some small way. Self-help books dominated the bestseller lists long after they had fallen out of favor in the West.

Jay had sat with a designer in the paper's multimedia department to work on a slideshow of Khurana's life and home. Called a web extra, it was meant to drive the newspaper's readers to its ad-heavy website.

“So, do you have anything good? The photos, I mean.”

Janet showed him the prints. Although she had long changed to the digital format, she was old school about one thing: printing out photographs that she could examine for details. Some things, she felt, were best seen when they were in your hands.

“These are very good,” Jay said. “What about the ones in his father's room?”

“Those didn't come out so well.”

“Can you go and take them again? Just call his assistant. I have his number.”

“You can't use these?”

“These are good, but since we're also focusing on his relationship with his father, I thought one photo in his father's room would work well.”

“OK.”

“Call and ask if you can go back today. I want to get Manisha to look at this on the page today. So we can decide when to run it.”

“OK. Shouldn't be a problem.”

“Also, and don't take this the wrong way, but are you free for a drink this evening?”

Janet looked momentarily taken aback.

“No pressure. Just a work thing,” Jay said, as if defending himself.

“No. It's fine,” she said smiling. “Eight?”

“Sounds good,” Jay replied. “We can talk about the case.”

As he watched her walk away, ruing his final words, Jay wished he'd said something witty.

* * *

Since he couldn't do anything more on the story until Janet returned, Jay decided to focus his attention on the burglaries. Including this one, there had been seven in all. But there was little happening with the story because of the Barton murder. It seemed as if all of the department's attention was focused on the killing. But there had to be a new angle somewhere. Jay decided to call Patil, an old friend on the force who was in charge of all the evidence that came in from various cases.

Patil picked up on the third ring.

“Jay bhai!” he said, instantly recognizing the number. “How may I be of service to you?”

Jay knew the routine. Despite his own preference for dealing with issues directly, he knew it would be considered rude to broach it immediately. Instead, the two men would have to do an age-old dance of verbal formality, each aware that the call was not merely social.

“Leave aside talk of service, it is I who is your servant,” Jay said, knowing how absurd it sounded coming from his mouth.

“How can a big man like you serve anyone, Jay bhai,” Patil said. “It is our job to serve.”

“You're too kind a man to be working in the department, Patil sahib. Too kind a man.”

“So, tell me, Jay bhai, what can I do for you?”

“Anything new on the burglaries?”

“Ah. The burglaries.”

Jay was relieved at the seriousness in Patil's tone.

“Any new developments?”

“Well, ever since the murder, that's all we're focusing on. But we were finally able to get the surveillance videos.”

“Which ones?”

“The ones from the latest burglary. But because of the murder, no one's had time to watch and compare them to the old ones.”

“Can I see them?”

Patil laughed a forced laugh.

“You're going to get me fired, Jay bhai.”

“Arre, without you the department will fall apart. They can't get rid of you.”

“Now you're telling the truth. OK, come in an hour. They'll be in an envelope. You didn't get them from me.”

“How could I get them from you, Patil sahib? You would never give them to a lowlife like me.”

“You're right about that,” Patil said, laughing.

* * *

There was more good news later in the day. Shakil Shah called Jay with exactly the kind of news he'd been hoping for. Shah had nothing to share from Chor Bazaar, where his main shop was located, but it was a different story in Lamington Road, a hub of cheap electronics and electronics parts.

Jay knew the area well. In many ways, it hadn't changed at all. He visited it often when he was a schoolboy to buy the series of prescribed textbooks from Navjivan Bookstore. But even in those days, it was a hub for computers and electronics. You could place an order for a computer of any configuration, and within a week, they'd deliver a fully loaded machine with any software you might need and all the software you likely won't.

On a more recent occasion, Jay had had the opportunity to take an American business journalist around the city, including to one of those periodic raids on vendors of pirated videos and music CDs that were staged to mollify the global intellectual property treaties. The American had looked across the street from the raid and saw fully loaded PCs being sold undisturbed at a fraction of the price they were available for in the West.

“Is this all shareware?” he'd asked, incredulous at the cost.

Jay laughed.

“In India, everything is shareware,” he'd replied.

Yes, in theory, this was a crime, because the software was blatantly pirated, but in Jay's mind there was a hierarchy to crime: terrorism, murder, drugs on top; intellectual property near the bottom. The police department did not have the resources to tackle it in any meaningful way.

Shakil told him that an electronics store in Lamington Road had bought electronics parts from a man on three occasions in the past three months. The man they remembered was nondescript, certainly not enough for Jay to find him or even know where to look. But the dates tallied with the ones of the three most recent thefts.

“Good for your friend. Now I need you to do me another favor.”

“Sure.”

“Ask him to notify me personally the next time he sees this guy.”

“You owe me big time, man,” Shah said.

* * *

A peon—one of many employed by practically every city business to run errands that would invariably crop up during the day (from buying tea and snacks to delivering and picking up packages) had brought back the surveillance videos, which Patil had helpfully transferred to DVDs. Jay began watching them in order, starting with the first burglary. At first he felt the enthusiasm that is reserved for a new task. But with each passing minute, with no apparent discovery, the zeal turned to drudgery. At this rate, he thought, this task would take hours, if not days. And what exactly was he looking for?

Jay could see the organic life of Mumbai's apartment buildings unfold. He felt like an anthropologist watching some species in its native habitat—except the species here were the city's affluent who kept the rest of the world at bay with their high walls, building security, and chauffeur-driven cars. In the videos, Jay could see the milkman arrive, followed by the paper wallah. The woman who cleared the garbage from homes was next. Then the kids left for school in their mostly white uniforms: girls in pinafores and ties, boys in ties and full-sleeved shirts and long pants, the younger ones in shorts, carrying bags heavier than their little shoulders could bear. Their parents followed next, driven to work by their army of waiting drivers. For these residents, the city was vibrant, exhilarating, the best place on Earth.

Everyone—by which they meant everyone they knew—had a cook, servants, drivers, and gardeners. Nobody had to clean their own bathrooms or drive themselves in the never-ending chaos that was the city's traffic.

“Nothing like Bombay,
yaar
” was a phrase you often heard in the city's coffee shops and bars.

Jay had watched the videos for hours with nothing to show for it. He leaned over the monitor, staring at the screen. The gray image from the security footage showed little. People entering the lobby, walking to the elevator or walking out of the elevator and into the lobby. If he was looking at something significant, he didn't know it. Was that something? He decided to rewind the tape. He watched a man in a suit enter the elevator carrying a large bag. Ten minutes later, he was out with the same bag. But it was the way he carried the bag that piqued Jay's interest. He carried it into the elevator with ease, but wheeled it out. This time, he was tugging it. It seemed weighted down and became stuck in the gap between the elevator and the lobby.

Jay wasn't sure why, but he thought he had something. He put on the first DVD again and played it through, this time watching for something similar. And there it was, once everyone had left the building: the same man carrying the bag in and wheeling it out soon afterward. Jay could feel his heart race. He played the remaining DVDs; it was the same thing.

He picked up the phone.

“Gaikwad here.”

“It's Jay Ganesh. Do you have any leads on the burglaries?”

“The burglaries?”

“Yes. I know you're busy with the Barton murder, but I'm working on a story.”

“This is off the record, but we're questioning a watchman from the incident.”

The word questioning and its various interpretations—most of them unpleasant—ran through Jay's mind. He decided not to press the issue.

“What has he said?”

“Nothing. Swears he didn't see anything. Idiot must have fallen asleep.”

“Now I have something you cannot ask questions about.”

“What?” Gaikwad asked.

“Firstly, give me your word. No questions.”

“OK. What?”

“I have surveillance videos from the other burglaries.”

Gaikwad was not pleased.
Someone's head should roll for that,
he thought, and he knew exactly who—that bastard in records. But Gaikwad had given his word.

“OK. What do you have?”

“Ask your watchman if he saw anyone with a large bag.”

“A large bag?”

“Yes. Just go with it.”

Jay gave him the rest of the details of what he'd seen.

Gaikwad asked the watchman to be brought to him. A few minutes later, Sakharam brought him over. The fear hadn't left his face.

“Did you see anyone with a bag?”

“Yes, sir. I see everyday. Little boys and girls going to school. Sahibs and memsahibs with their bags going to work.”

Had this been someone else, Gaikwad would have thought they were mocking him. In this case, it was clear this man was merely stupid.

“No, no, you idiot,” Gaikwad said. “A man with a big bag.”

The watchman thought for a while.

“
Haan
, sahib,” he said, scratching his head. “He wore Ray-Ban glasses.”

“Ray-Ban glasses?”

“Like Akshay Kumar,” he said, naming the famous actor. “Why, sahib? Who is he?”

Gaikwad didn't answer. He called Jay back immediately.

“I think we may have something. Bring the tape over. I'd like to do a more formal identification.”

“I'll be there in an hour.”

Jay beamed. He was on the verge of catching the burglar. The man had been spotted on camera. Now, all that was left was for him to be caught. Then the police would have to do their job.

He looked at his watch. It was eight. He was supposed to be meeting Janet for drinks. “Shit!” He dialed her number.

“How would you like to go to the police station with me?”

“Do they serve martinis there?”

“Just a short stop. I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

“Fine. Don't be any later than you are. I hate delays.”

Chapter 9

Gaikwad began by riding out to Barton's home near Nepean Sea Road. He was beginning to feel more comfortable with the area. In the course of a normal day he rarely, if ever, came to this part of the city, but this case had changed that. He'd become warily accustomed to the hum of the neighborhood: the long lines outside the consulate, the obvious affluence; even the children of the privileged riding in their chauffer-driven cars, blaring music or yapping into cell phones, irritated him less. Much of the city was being transformed into just this. “Is that such a bad thing?” he wondered.

Gaikwad reverted to the task at hand.

He decided to start with Barton's neighborhood to see if he could learn anything about Liz Barton.

He had learned little so far: Both her husband and her colleagues had described her as cold, but driven. But no one could think of any reason why anyone would want her dead. No one could understand why the body had been moved to a garbage dump near Mahim. But Gaikwad often found that the people who noticed things in cases like this were seldom the victim's friends, family, or neighbors. Instead, much of the information came from the local drivers, gardeners, maids, watchmen, and general factotums. This was a great gift to any Indian investigator, but it could also be a curse. People were more than ready to talk, in fact they loved to talk and share gossip, but the moment you asked them to cooperate with an investigation they'd clam up because of fear or embellish the truth to enhance their own role in the matter. Also, in many cases he'd investigated, it was not uncommon for the best witnesses to either become unreliable or outright hostile. Mostly it was fear. No one wanted to testify against the local goonda, or gang boss, at least not in public. Everyone saw a conspiracy lurking around the corner, men in dark rooms plotting dastardly deeds.

Gaikwad had changed out of his uniform into civilian clothes. It was almost noon when he reached Barton's building. The early-morning bustle was slowly winding down at lunchtime, making its way for the much-needed siesta. He saw the building watchman share a smoke with a few other men, presumably building staff. He walked up to them, lapsed into Marathi and into a familiarity that instantly made everyone comfortable; comfortable, but they were all still aware by his manner of talk and the way he carried himself that he was of a different class.

He offered them cigarettes, a welcome change from their Monkey brand
beedis
, talked about the latest cricket score, and listened as they shared gossip from around the neighborhood before making his move. He told them what he did and what he wanted to know.

“Did any of you know her?” he asked.

They shook their heads.

“She was an
angrez
, sahib,” one of them said, using the word for English, but used generally for Westerners. “She smiled at us sometimes, but never spoke.”

“What about her husband?”

“He kept to himself.”

“But if you really want to know about her, talk to her driver, Borkar,” one of the others said.

“Oh?” Gaikwad asked.

“Yes. He lives not far from here. He was always saying what a good woman she was.”

Gaikwad lingered. He did not want to leave immediately, lest they think he was merely using them for information.

“Call me,” he said, “if any of you can think of anything. You'll be doing me a personal favor.”

Gaikwad knew that no man would ever pass up the opportunity to have a cop owe them a favor. He finished his smoke, asked for directions, thanked them, and moved on. Gaikwad walked past
paan-beedi
shops, makeshift auto garages, back-alley pharmaceutical operations, chapati-making outfits, people milling about idly, and sleeping dogs spread out near dozing cats and prostate cows, until he found himself at the entrance to a slum. The smell of urine was strong, as was the aroma of freshly prepared meals. A Hanuman temple stood at the entrance; orange flags, denoting the Hindu faith, lined the path. Although he'd grown up in similar surroundings Gaikwad had long tried to forget what it was like to come to a place like this. Being on a motorcycle or a jeep gave you a certain immunity, a certain ephemeral sense of power, but here, in his regular clothes, Gaikwad confronted what he hated most about poverty: the sheer desperate misery of it. And what he couldn't understand when he grew up here, and he certainly did not understand now, was how all these people who lived here did so with a smile on their faces. They might as well have been residents of Malabar Hill instead of a squalid little slum with shared toilets and open sewers. Gaikwad stood at the fourth door to the left. The door was open but the curtains drawn. Inside he could hear a television.

“Borkar?” he asked, before repeating the name louder.

A head peered out from behind the curtains. “Yes?”

“My name is Inspector Vijay Gaikwad,” he said, showing him his badge. “I'm here to talk about Liz Baar-Tone madam.”

Borkar did not look happy at the intrusion but invited Gaikwad in, probably knowing that refusing a cop was a bad idea. ”How can I help you?” he asked, his tone guarded.

“I've heard that you were close to her.”

“She was a good woman.”

“Can you tell me anything else? Who could have killed her? Did she have enemies?”

“I don't know about that. But she was getting threats.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I think it was quite a few times but I only saw it once.”

“You saw it?”

“Yes. I dropped her off at home and was parking the car. Then my phone rang. She was screaming. She said many things in English but she was speaking too fast for me to understand. But she said, ‘Come up. Come up.' So I rushed up and found her hysterical. She showed me to the bathroom where on the mirror there was a threat written in red.”

“What did it say?”

“‘No more warnings.'”

“Are you sure?”

“I read a little English. Enough to know that I am right.”

“What about her husband? Where was he?”

“I don't know. I've heard he had another woman, but she seemed OK with him. He came later and comforted her.”

“Did you call the police?”

“She was insistent that we not do that.”

“Did she say why?”

“No.”

“Why didn't you tell the police?”

“I didn't want to get involved.”

“Are you still working for them?”

“No. I don't have a job anymore. After her death, her husband said, ‘Don't come.'”

“He said that? Why?”

“I don't know. So I stopped going.”

“Can you think of anything else? Anyone else she was close to?”

“No. She mostly kept to herself. Sometimes she chatted in the car to her brother in
Amrika
. She would go out with her husband sometimes. Sometimes she would talk to Hazra sahib at the office, and a few times I dropped her off at Prithvi Theatre for coffee. She would meet that Khurana sahib there.”

“Khurana sahib?”

“Yes, the industrialist.”

“Was it business?”

“Not sure. They were friendly.”

“As in, were they having a relationship?”

The driver thought for a while. “No. I can't say for sure they weren't, but mostly they just talked. I never noticed any hanky-panky that you notice when married people are doing things they shouldn't be doing.”

“Are you sure she didn't have any enemies?”

“I told you—I don't know. But she was a very good woman. Every day she would talk to me in her broken Hindi. She treated me like a human being. You won't understand, sahib, but people like us live on the margins and our employers act like we don't exist. We're invisible beings who open their car doors and clean their houses. They tell their friends that we're like their family, but we still are made to sit on the floor in their houses and drink tea or water from ‘special' glasses. There is always that sense that we are less.

“But madam was not like that. She asked about my wife and children. About my kids' education, offered to pay for their fees in an English-medium school.”

Gaikwad knew exactly what Borkar was talking about. As a young man, it used to infuriate him. Now that he was on the other side of the divide, he just thought of it as the Indian way.

“Were you with her on the day she came back from Singapore?”

“Yes, sir. She'd called me on my mobile. Told me to come to Sahar airport. I waited there and took her home.”

“And she was fine?”

“She seemed a little anxious. She was trying her husband's number but couldn't get through. Then she made another call. Not sure to whom, but she spoke for a little while and hung up.”

“How long did you stay?”

“Not long. When I dropped the keys off, she told me to go home.”

“And you did?”

“I came down and waited with the watchman, smoking.”

“For how long?”

“Only ten to fifteen minutes.”

“Did you see anything?”

“I saw that Gaja Kohli sahib, that NGO wallah, waiting in his car.”

“Kohli? Are you sure?”

“Yes, sahib. Because there was that party incident and we knew that he had threatened her.”

“And you didn't do anything?”

“What could I do? He was sitting in his car. I don't know what he was doing there.”

“Anything else you can think of? Any arguments she might have had?”

The driver paused for a brief moment, enough for Gaikwad to know he was remembering something.

“It might be nothing.”

“However insignificant, it may be important.”

“A week before she went to Singapore, I went to her office to give her something. But that Hazra sahib was there. The office was empty and they were arguing. Loudly.”

“What about?”

“Don't know, sahib. They were speaking in English and it was very fast and it was loud and he stormed out of the office.”

“Did he see you?”

“Yes. But he didn't acknowledge me. These people never acknowledge us.”

Gaikwad processed what the driver was saying. It was frustrating. And then he thought about the murder victim as a person—someone with the same hopes, aspirations, drive, compassion, and fears as the rest of humanity. But someone had decided to end her life.

“Please call if you remember anything,” Gaikwad said, knowing that the driver had little more to offer. “This is my personal cell phone number.”

* * *

It was late by the time he finished with the driver, returned to the station, changed back into his uniform, and finished dealing with the requisite paperwork of the day. Gaikwad decided that he would visit Gaja Kohli. He found it hard to believe that this mild-mannered man, known around the world for his principles, could be involved in something like murder, but his experience also told him that there were no “murdering types.” We are all capable of horrible acts; some people are better than others at curbing their baser instincts. Which category did Kohli fall into?

He'd allowed Kohli to pick the venue for his interview the last time—the Udupi restaurant. This time, Gaikwad wanted to be in control. He thought about calling him to the police station—after all, he did lie during questioning—but Gaikwad found that talking to people in their own surroundings put them more at ease. There was too much fear introduced into the equation at the police station. Everyone expected to come in and get slapped around or worse, and they would confess to anything, including murders that had taken place fifty years earlier. Still, Gaikwad knew he'd have to put Kohli on the spot, enough to get the complete truth out of him.

* * *

“Yes, inspector, how can I help you?” Kohli said when Gaikwad called.

In truth, the inspector was relieved that Kohli's partner, Arundhati, hadn't answered. The women he'd met on this case—Arundhati and Uma—both intimidated him: one for her overt aggression and the other for her overt sexuality.

“I'd like to discuss the Barton murder with you.”

“I've told you all I know, inspector,” Kohli replied in Marathi, his voice still friendly.

“Just a couple of loose ends that need tying up,” Gaikwad said, not wanting to give anything away.

“Glad to help. Same place?”

“No. Either the police station or your apartment.”

Kohli paused. “Why don't you come here?” he replied. “We can talk in a more relaxed setting.”

“I'll be there in an hour.”

* * *

Gaikwad was surprised at the building in front of him. It was old and he'd had a hard time finding it. This was the old part of Mumbai; the residents didn't care to show that they were wealthy, and many were, fabulously so. But if you knew the city, you knew who lived here and what they did. It was an old building near Opera House, the Baroque-style building that had lain crumbling for as long as Gaikwad could remember (but which was the object of restoration plans for as long as he was alive). The area was mainly commercial, but people still lived here, people for whom Bombay rarely stretched beyond Worli. Their flats were tucked away in hidden lanes in invisible buildings that were known only to the most wizened
paan
wallahs who'd run businesses here for decades, watching the city change even as they remained virtually unchanged.

The building begged for a coat of paint; the only vestige of its once proud past was its art deco design, now hidden behind scaffolding. Gaikwad looked up: Air conditioners jutted out of every window, clothes were being hung out to dry. Smokers and children stood at their balconies, peering down, curious as to what a policeman might be doing here. Gaikwad walked into the unlit foyer (there was no watchman; the bulb had gone out) and groped his way in the darkness to the wooden stairwell. The stairs creaked with each step, as if crying out, unable to stand the burden of the decades. Gaikwad hoped for some light, but there was none. Eventually, he came to the top of the flight of stairs. He could make out a door. He felt like a blind man as he moved his hand along the wall, hoping to find a bell. He rang it.