Dead in a Mumbai Minute (26 page)

I sat in the very intimidating boardroom of the largest English paper in Mumbai. For about ten minutes I was alone, probably by design.

At last two people walked in: a man in a suit, definitely not a journalist and very possibly a lawyer or a particularly uptight management-type, and a pint-sized woman draped in an elegant sari and a string of pearls who wore her power lightly but never for a moment let you forget it – without a doubt, Shakuntala Padhy.

She took a seat, followed by the man. Shakuntala was in no mood to waste time. ‘How can we help you?’ she asked.

‘I wanted to speak to Mr Parashar, as he may have information relevant to our murder investigation.’

‘You will have to be more explicit than that,’ she said.

‘While we are not yet sure Dhingre’s death has anything to do with Kimaaya, we cannot ignore the possibility that it might. In light of that, what Mr Parashar revealed in the paper this morning could have a significant bearing on events.’

‘You think news of Kimaaya’s secret marriage has something to do with this murder?’ asked Padhy. Her face gave little away.

‘We can’t rule out the possibility. How did he come by this information?’

‘That, I am sure you know, is confidential.’

I would have to try a different approach. ‘Dhingre appears to have recently learnt of this himself, and we would like to know how that came to pass.’

‘It does sound like you are considering it as motive.’

‘As I said, we are looking into every aspect of this case. Will Mr Parashar be joining us?’ I asked.

‘Ms Ray,’ said Shakuntala, ‘the only reason we are entertaining any of your questions in the first place is because Shayak happens to be a close personal friend of mine. But if you aren’t going to be open with us, I don’t see why we should be open with you. You aren’t the police.’

‘We are working together with the police; this is by no means an independent investigation.’

‘Then why am I talking to a twenty-year-old instead of a uniformed officer? Or Shayak himself?’

‘While I don’t see why my age is relevant, Ms Padhy, the police can be involved in this if you so desire. And Shayak is away on business, but is overseeing every aspect of my work.’

I paused. She didn’t look like she was about to budge.

‘I am not withholding information,’ I continued. ‘I am merely refusing to speculate about motive when we are yet to establish it. I hope you can understand that. If I appear uncommunicative on the essentials, it is merely an occupational hazard. If you know Shayak well, you can gather how little I am authorized to speak about.’

‘I don’t think anyone knows Shayak well enough to fathom his need to be a perpetual man of mystery,’ she said, at last letting slip something resembling a smile. ‘Thus the mess he finds himself in this morning.’

‘Still, you must understand that it is critical we speak with Mr Parashar.’

She looked at the suited man, and he gave a tiny nod. ‘He isn’t here,’ she said. ‘We haven’t been able to trace him since this morning.’

‘But when I spoke with him– ’

‘I know. I spoke with him just after that to set up this meeting. But subsequently there has been no sign of him at office or at home, and his cell phone has been switched off.’

‘Any idea where he is?’

‘No, and I have to say I am a little concerned.’

‘Ms Padhy, if Mr Parashar has disappeared, it makes it even more imperative that we look deeper.’

‘Why?’

‘He has uncovered highly sensitive information that might have bearing on a murder investigation. His disappearance, if that is what it is, can’t be a coincidence.’

‘It makes him a suspect, doesn’t it?’

‘It is pointless to speculate, but it certainly bolsters the theory that he has some connection with the case.’

‘There was a pen drive,’ she said. ‘It arrived with the mail a couple of weeks ago.’

‘The mail? Snail mail?’

‘Yes, it was hand-delivered. It contained copies of three documents with Kimaaya Kapoor’s name on them: the marriage certificate, a divorce ruling and a certificate of completion of a course of rehab.’

The three dates we found on Dhingre’s person. My pulse quickened. ‘No clue as to the identity of the sender?’ I had assumed that in looking into Dhingre’s death, the journalist had uncovered the information in the paper today. But if someone had sent these explosive personal details to Parashar
ahead
of the murder, that put a different complexion on things entirely.

‘No. We even had the tech guys look at it. You can understand how any of those three pieces of news would have been considered gold for our entertainment pages. But all three? It seemed too good to be true, which is why we decided to be as thorough as possible.’

‘It was addressed to Mr Parashar?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘He is our leading entertainment journalist.’

‘He had recently done a few pieces on Kimaaya’s career.’ I remembered seeing them in Dhingre’s file.

‘Yes, but that’s nothing special. He’s written about almost every other actress in town in some context or the other.’

‘Did either of you know Ashutosh Dhingre?’

‘I didn’t. Parashar said he didn’t either.’

‘Dhingre had a file of stories about Kimaaya, many of which were written by Parashar. Are you sure he wasn’t the one who sent the pen drive?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘Because,’ said Shakuntala, ‘the information flowed the other way around.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When the pen drive came in, Parashar brought it straight to me. He knew it was explosive, and very possibly fake. At first, we weren’t sure how to deal with it. Despite all the talk about page 3 and paparazzi in our country, the approach to celebrity gossip in India is still quite immature – if you’ve noticed, we don’t really do a lot of dirty-linen airing that could be seriously harmful to anyone. We know a lot more than we choose to publish. So Parashar would have to proceed with extreme caution, to ensure the documents were authentic beyond a shadow of a doubt.’

I knew what Shakuntala said was true – I had always heard rumours from my journalist friends that were far worse than anything I saw in print. Our stars had it easy compared to their counterparts in the West.

‘I told Parashar to move as though it were a hard news story,’ Shakuntala continued. ‘Only the highest level of information would suffice as verification of these documents. The marriage and divorce papers were easy enough – being matters of official record, corroboration was possible through sources in the municipality and the courts. However, the drug business proved far trickier to establish. We contacted the rehab centre directly and they threatened us with a lawsuit, denying the whole thing. None of Kimaaya’s friends would say anything concrete. Though it was pretty well known in the industry that Kimaaya was using something back in her heyday, what it was, when it ended, when it began were not facts we could ascertain. There is an honour code amongst users; no one wants to be the pot calling the kettle black for fear that their turn will come next. So we called Ashutosh Dhingre.’

‘You said you didn’t know him.’

‘We made contact through our columnist Bindu Bisht.’

I remembered her arrival at Maaya Island in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and faux grief. She had known Dhingre quite well, she had said.

‘She called Dhingre in. He didn’t try to deny the news of the marriage or divorce – and even if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered as we knew by then we were on the verge of getting the proof we needed. On the drug business, he was far more vocal. He said the whole thing was a lie, and that if anyone were to know if Kimaaya had gone to rehab at that time, it would be him.’

‘Did you show him the document you had?’

‘Yes – said it was fake.’

‘And then?’

‘He stormed out of here. He called Parashar later to plead with us not to print the story. Said it would destroy Kimaaya.’

‘Didn’t you find his concern strange, in light of the fact they had parted ways?’

‘He said that despite everything he would not watch her be pulled down, after having been with her since she was little more than a child. That she had a good heart underneath it all. Bindu said she wasn’t surprised by any of it; he was one of the last gentlemen in the industry and, if Kimaaya had had any sense, she would never have fired him.’

‘Is that why you didn’t print the drug angle?’

‘Of course not. At the end of the day, it came down to too little by way of facts. If the document had turned out to be a fake, we would be hung out to dry. The marriage-divorce story was sensational enough, and we were on solid ground there.’

‘Why didn’t you wait for Kimaaya’s version?’

‘We contacted her the night before we ran; she refused to come to the phone.’

‘Did she know what it was about?’

‘We spoke to her assistant and told her it was urgent. And then we decided, to hell with it. We had government documents, we didn’t need anymore verification and we knew we would only get a denial from her anyway.’

‘You and Shayak are friends. You didn’t contact him?’

‘And have the whole weight of the Indian political establishment come down on us before we could go to print? Not a risk worth taking when we had faith in our material.’

‘Any luck tracking down the person that sent the pen drive in the first place?’

‘No.’

‘It didn’t strike you as suspicious?’

‘Of course. It reeked. Someone was obviously out to get Kimaaya, and we didn’t know why. But cold as it may sound, it didn’t particularly matter at the end of the day.’

‘You didn’t have second thoughts after the murder?’

‘About running it, no. Timing, yes. We could have gone to print earlier, but it seemed in bad taste. So we waited a couple of days. Wasting any more time seemed foolish. Who knows who else had been sent the same information?’

The murder had only made the story more newsworthy. I wondered how much it would actually affect Kimaaya. Shayak, who prized his privacy and anonymity above all else, seemed to be the one with more to lose.

‘No further contact from the sender?’

‘No.’

‘Could I have a look at the drive? I’d like to see if our tech team has better luck with it than you had.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Shakuntala, taking it out of her handbag and sliding it across the table. ‘We’ve got what we needed.’

‘You’ll let me know if Mr Parashar surfaces?’

She nodded.

TWELVE

T
he murder of Ashutosh Dhingre had begun to feel bigger than what I could see. Tech-savvy snitches, paparazzi, secrets – and a likely connection to another murder. And now, following Shayak’s advice to trust no one, I found myself on the outside looking in once more.

I thought I would never have to struggle for information again, with Titanium on the inside track with the police. But that was apparently a qualified association at the moment. So the upshot was that I needed help. Despite Shayak’s confidence, there was only so much headway I could make in a new, big city on my own. I needed to turn to someone who, I could say with some degree of certainty, had nothing to do with any of this business.

I called Terrence. ‘Are you ready for that drink?’ I asked.

‘Always.’

I gave him directions to my place, before packing my bag with everything I might need for the next few days, and headed out. I didn’t know when I’d be back in office. With Shayak’s instructions to act on my own, I thought I would be better off working from home to avoid questions and steer clear of prying eyes.

I picked up some cans of beer and, half an hour later, found Terrence leaning on my doorframe.

‘Ray, I knew it would come to this some day,’ he smirked.

I reminded myself it was all for a good cause. ‘Lose the attitude, Terrence. I called you here because I need your help – and a private place to talk.’

‘Private?’ The smirk did not dim in its brightness.

‘It’s about work.’

That got his attention. ‘The mighty Titanium needs me again?’

‘Come in,’ I said.

Terrence followed me in and I went to the fridge and poured our drinks. ‘Nice place,’ he said.

‘Yeah – company flat.’

He let out a low whistle. ‘These guys are really taking care of you.’

‘It’s not bad.’

‘If I was in your position, I’d be a damn sight more grateful. A month ago, you were working with Calcutta’s saddest collection of crime-fighters, begging for cases for free and you still couldn’t get them.’

‘That’s a little harsh.’

‘Well, that’s what you can expect from old friends who’ve seen you before you made the big league. But you made it out of there, so kudos to you.’

And straight into another mess.

‘How’s the work going?’

‘Just getting settled in.’

‘With the biggest case of the year.’

‘Is that what you consider this?’

‘Dude! Don’t play dumb. You are in the limelight – might as well enjoy it. And this thing gets better and better. Your boss was married to Kimaaya Kapoor, man!’

‘So?’

‘Just saying. Some guys have all the luck.’

‘Why don’t you tell me about your case for a change?’ I asked.

He gave me a sketch of what he had been up to – he had followed a man who had allegedly perpetrated a chit fund fraud on 500 unsuspecting families, swindling them of over ₹ 50 lakh. The victims had rallied together and gone to the police. When they seemed slow on the uptake, they had come to Terrence’s agency, and he had tracked the man to Mumbai.

‘How much longer do you think you’ll be in town?’ I asked.

‘Do I sense a desire to spend more time together?’

‘You’re not a very good detective, are you?’

Terrence’s smile widened. ‘At least another couple of weeks.’

‘Do you think you have time to help me with my case?’

‘A case – or
the
case?’

‘
The
case, if you must.’

‘Why would you need my help?’

‘Titanium often works with freelancers. It’s no big deal.’

‘Why is it always like this with you? Even when you want help, you’ll make me feel like a fool.’