Bhendi Bazaar (18 page)

Still shocked at Hingorani’s analogy, Viviane remained silent. 'Miss Viviane, please respond to my question.'

Viviane, tears in eyes, voiced. 'I have, but...'

'Miss Viviane, I don't mean to be explicit, but I have to ask you this: did my clients make you do anything sexual that you hadn't done before?'

Viviane broke down shaking her head. 'No.'

'You should be glad, Miss Viviane, that my clients are not asking for punitive damages. Your insincere attempt to tarnish my clients' reputation could be treated as a serious offence and a sheer waste of court’s time.' He turned to Justice Khanna. 'I fail to see any merit whatsoever in further arguments, My Lord. The defence rests now.' He ran his left hand through his hair again, and pretentiously walked back to his seat. He had mercilessly throttled the truth.

Truth? It wasn't Hingorani's sole effort; truth had always had a tendency to be martyred.

Verma, checkmated, had no riposte. He sat like someone had glued his lips; there was hardly any chance of the case turning around after this.

The case was quashed.

Honourable Shri Justice J.K. Khanna dropped the gavel. He arose — and so did everyone in the court — and walked out. Verma walked up to Viviane to calm her.

Kumar, Thapar, Khan, Sharma and Raghavan walked free.

Mistrial.

Those two words – “not guilty” — ruined Viviane.

Woken up in the middle of the night by frantic cries from Junior — the Club was closed for business on the day of the hearing — Margaret, and others, tried making tourniquets of anything they could get hold of, but too much blood had been lost.

They couldn't save Viviane. At any rate, she didn't want to live. Junior was too young to understand death when he saw its ugly face, and the consequences it would bear for him after Viviane's loss, albeit he could comprehend it was a loss, a wound.

Some things remain — or at least seem — incomplete even after their conclusion.

Junior wondered why his mother had not bid goodbye to him? He, too, hadn't got the chance to say goodbye to his mother. He sat beside her, holding her hand till the morning. They had to wait for a full day before they could shift the stiff to a cemetery.

Viviane was smuggled out of the dump like she had been smuggled in.

EIGHTEEN
2007

Five days, Rita reminded herself before she went to bed. It wasn't like anything lasting could ever materialise between Ash and her. It wasn't that he'd propose. Or that she'd accept if he did. She couldn’t comprehend the excitement. Camaraderie? Good friends didn't have sex.

She couldn't put a finger on it and that bothered her. Was she merely filling the void? Or was it just a request from her body, an auscultation? Perhaps, time hadn't allowed concluding things the last time Ash was in town? The moon was yawning, stretching, and the moonlight smiling; a forgotten story was resurfacing. Karan. Ash. She wasn't going to
“spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you
". She disallowed her mind to go off looking for an answer. Let things take their own course was her last erudite thought before sleep took her away.

Only to wake up four hours later to the menacing noise of her telephone at 3:15 a.m.

Rita's mind went numb as she took the call. Premonition conveyed to the subconscious mind that a call at this hour wasn't a good sign. It could be a murder. Or the murderer?

It was the Duty Inspector from the Control Room. Murder. Male victim. Vile Parle apartment. Fourth floor.

'Please get S/I Vikram and Inspector Jatin Singh out of their beds and ask them to meet me at the location ASAP,' she said without any contrition; the two couldn't be doing much at this hour except killing time with sleep. 'Have your murder investigation troops rushed to the scene if they haven’t already started. Also, ask the local police station to cordon off the area and ensure that no one touches anything. No one talks to the media. And I need a patrol car in fifteen minutes. Thanks.'

The similar pungent whiff of death awaited Rita and her team. Simultaneity of “fuck” filled the room like it was the mantra of the day chanted irrespective of rank. “Sonofabitch” succeeded that, quickly followed by other numerous, non-gender specific, obscenities; profanities generally practice equal opportunity, gender wasn't even considered before uttering. Rita, Jatin and Vikram looked at each other. The phalanx of uniformed police waited for instructions while the scene of crime machinery got into action.

Another life had been pronounced extinct.

The psychotic killer had struck again. It was like an encore, a repeat performance of the previous two murders.
Au naturel
male stiff. Age thirty-five, give or take. Groin butchered, genitalia dismembered and missing: the killer had signed off his work by taking the penis away. One shot in the head between the eyes. There was a tumbler with a little amber coloured liquid remaining, which didn't require the expertise of a laboratory to tell Rita & Co. what it was: some alcohol with Choral Hydrate. Interestingly, the killer had, on this occasion, strived to mislead by leaving a bra at the scene. Feminine scent, lipstick, female voice and now a bra, why?

While it had been confirmed by experts that the call Rita had received from the killer weeks ago was authentic, Rita decided to test if the loony caller knew intricate details about this recent murder. If they ensured that specifics weren't disclosed outside a close coterie of police personnel present at the scene, there could only be one person who would know this: the killer himself. 'I want as many uniformed police officers at the site as required to keep the media away. Cordon off the whole goddamn street, no photographs, no comments, nothing whatsoever to any reporter. Arrest anyone who trespasses and confiscate the cameras. No exceptions at all. That's an order. Canvass, re-canvass the area under a microscope, I want nothing to be missed this time. No one can commit three murders and not leave a single clue, especially when one is bent on seeking glory,' she demanded. This was, now, more than just doing a job; this was about pride, a belief in justice. And, if there was a God, Rita thought, it was about time
He
, at the least, took sides.

What was already bad had taken another wrong turn. The story would, no doubt, go national now. Media thrived remorselessly at failures. Didn’t the sinking of the Titanic sell more paper than its sailing?

'What are you thinking?' Vikram asked when Rita sat in the Gypsy he was driving her back in. They had entrusted Jatin to take charge of the uniformed police before leaving the scene.

'I have no idea what to think, absolutely no fucking idea at all.' Rita wished this was some episode of CSI and some wicked technology could solve the mystery. She lowered the volume on the radio: it was high time, anyway, that someone told Michael Bolton how he was supposed to live without whoever he was supposed to live without.

Joseph Martin was a lanky man measuring six feet three. Married, with three daughters, a doting wife and a flourishing business manufacturing steel girders. Four factories in Valsad, — also known as Bulsar where Farrokh Bulsara alias Freddie Mercury (Queen) came from — numerous other properties in Mumbai, which were, like this one in Vile Parle, furnished and locked. Mumbai tenancy rules prohibited property investors like Martin to rent them out of fear of tenants becoming squatters; as a consequence, the investor was better off keeping the property vacant and locked. Even that wasn’t considered secure, but Martin was a shark and the minnows, resultantly, kept away. Above all, Martin knew what to do with his properties. Some residents, in the Vile Parle building, regularly saw him in the company of gorgeous women in this apartment, though no one knew who he was or what he did or where he came from. He was spotted in the lifts, once in a while — a polite, well-mannered man, impeccably attired to reflect his status.

On this particular instance, Martin had called his wife Sylvia at six-thirty the evening before to inform he wasn't coming home, but driving over to Valsad. There had been some labour issues in one of the factories and he needed to be there. Sylvia hadn't been concerned because whenever Martin had to rush for anything, either he or his driver RK called to report. And RK had called sometime after 9 p.m. to confirm that
sahib
went straight into a negotiation meeting after the 200-kilometre journey.

Three neighbours had seen his black Audi drive in, on this occasion,, but hadn't bothered to see who the filly was on this trip. One senior couple, however, was certain they had seen two silhouettes in the car when Martin had driven into the complex.

The local police had combed every inch and collected all fibres, hair, latents and whatnots from his car to see if they could recover anything that wasn't his or his family’s. Everything had been sent off to the Forensics.

The Vile Parle apartment was quite a way from the local train station and that made Rita deduce that the assailant might have a mode of transport. The red Maruti seen near Rita's apartment, on the night she got the call, came to mind. However, nothing evidenced that the killer, after stamping out his victims, returned home immediately. He could well have stayed in a hotel or some guesthouse to celebrate his success for a while or to contrive a menace for his next target. Or he could have used some public transport.

Pathologist and Forensics confirmed what the detectives knew already. Chloral Hydrate in blood, 9 x19 calibre shot post-mortem.

What was with the bra then?

The size was 38D. Big woman. But the Forensics confirmed it had never been worn.

Futile shenanigan by the murderer then?

Frighteningly immaculate planning though — the killer had, once again, covered his tracks magnificently, not giving anything away. Thus far, the investigation had consumed resources and delivered no leads. It was a grisly thought to wait for another victim, to hope the killer might make a mistake and render some clues. Rita grimaced at the very idea, but given the druthers, she found the strange thought comfortable. How belatedly would that be? And how many more would be stamped out before the killer stopped hunting?

Or he was hunted?

One thing no one doubted was that the inveterate killer would strike again. Reckless to the point of taunting, the killer had left Martin's mobile phone behind. Martin had received two calls from a Dubai number on his mobile phone in the hour before his death.

Everyone’s a saint before their sins get uncovered. Sylvia, Martin's wife, was either fraught with defiance or hurting that her husband was gallivanting with a hooker; she insisted that she had no idea. Her persistent denial about her dead husband’s philanderings eventually convinced the detectives. Any question seemed pointless in the light of her ignorance.

'There's one thing we're still missing here, Vikram...' Rita was sat sipping coffee in her office.

'What’s that ma'am?'

'How does it all start? I understand Martin received calls from the Dubai number, but that cannot be the start. Don't you think that he would have called some local number, someone like Hegde, to initiate his request for a hooker? Seems there's something missing. Where did the person with the Dubai number get the idea that Martin needed a girl last night?'

'He might have erased that number from his call list.'

'The phone company should be able to give us the call-log. Tell them this is a murder investigation and they'd better fucking cooperate. We don't have time for court orders.' Rita was losing her control on the language; the stress was getting to her.

'Yes ma'am.'

'The driver…' Rita said aloud before Vikram had left her office. His expression remained blank as a newly bought slate. 'Wasn't he the one who called Martin's wife to say they were in Valsad?’

A nod from Vikram.

'If he knew his boss was jazzing around with some whore in one of the apartments, why couldn't it be
him
who arranged for her in the first place?'

Another nod. The reasoning was sinking in.

All its authority and coercion tactics notwithstanding, Mumbai Police couldn't dredge up any information from the driver. RK simply wasn't in the know. Sometimes Martin
sahib
gave him time off and told him to make a call on his behalf and he did exactly that. Yes, Martin
sahib
had female guests in the car, yes some of them weren't exactly business associates, and yes there were times when more than words were exchanged in the back seat while he drove. However, he had no idea how Martin
sahib
contacted this guests. He had an inkling Martin
sahib
entertained some guests at his various
pieds-à-terre
, but he was never privy to which vacant property Martin
sahib
would grace on a particular evening. Which made sense: why would Joseph Martin tell RK where he shacked with a whore after hours?

All in all, bad news for crime branch: no clue, no indicant.

'If Joseph Martin called someone for what we think he called for, there should be calls made by this number to arrange what Martin wanted,’ Rita reasoned with Vikram.

Nod.

‘And there must be calls made
to
him or
by
him after that call to confirm…maybe?’ Yet another nod.

‘I’m sure he erased some call. Ask the mobile operator to give us the record of all incoming and outgoing calls from Martin’s SIM and names and addresses of all subscribers or current locations of the all those numbers on Martin’s call-log.'

The pressure on Rita was apparent, and justifiably so. She had just returned from Joshi's office, updating her supervisor of the day’s events. There was no way under the sun — even the subfusc Mumbai one at the moment — they could keep the news of murder under wraps. The media had to be briefed.

The AirMobile Chief Executive personally called the Ops Room to update Rita. He wanted to emphasise they were with the police, and that any assistance sought would be provided. He was dedicating one of the senior personnel from his company’s PR team to be responsible for all related enquiries. AirMobile, as good corporate citizens, had agreed to help
ipso facto
, as this was in continuation of the murder investigation. It took a while, but they eventually furnished the list of calls made by Joseph Martin.

Rita's hunch hadn't been totally speculative. Martin had erased a call from the call-log from his mobile on the evening of his murder: a local mobile number; the number — another pay-as-you-go without any personal details on file — was currently switched off. It was last used around six in the morning near Santa Cruz airport. Maybe the mobile phone and its owner were travelling. Advancing the same hypothesis, AirMobile was asked to provide call log of the switched-off phone. Four calls had been made from the phone since it had received a call from Martin the evening before. Two were subscribers, their details on file. One was yet another unlisted pay-as-you-go number. Fishy. The fourth call had been made to Martin within ten minutes of Martin’s call.

To confirm the rendezvous perhaps?

Working back through the two known subscribers, the police established the owner of the phone Martin had called was one Mr Al Khan, a local photographic studio owner specialising in portraits for female models. Sources revealed he was single, in his early thirties, and he had flown to Delhi in the morning for purchases, and should be back in a couple of days. His studio and residence were on files now — to be investigated on his return.

The untraceable number Al Khan had called immediately after he had received the call from Martin had been purchased from a shop in Bhendi Bazaar a few weeks ago. The day after Hegde's arrest, to be precise. No calls had ever been made by it; it had been switched off almost immediately after purchase. Similar story. It was being used to forward the calls to another untraceable number.

'No one calls either numbers. We need to know where this phone is.' Rita was clearheaded.

It was possible that Khan and Hegde had the same contact — Malti or Julie? — and when Hegde got arrested, the killer arranged for a new number for the
tele
-pimps across town. At least, Rita thought, they were on the right track. How long was the track before they could get to the killer was still uncertain. Maybe Khan was another
tele
-pimp. Maybe not.

The media maggots had already thronged the site of the latest murder. Restricted by the police tape there, they were updated by Vile Parle SHO regarding the unlawful death of one Mr Joseph Martin.