Bhendi Bazaar (3 page)

'Anything else?'

'Ask the uniformed division to take charge of the street. If this happened between ten and midnight, a lot of shops, street vendors, restaurants should have been thronged with last- minute shoppers on the main street, which the killer would have passed on the way in or out. Someone might have noticed something unusual. Someone must know Lele, might have seen him entering the premises. There was at least one watchman at the building gate when I came in. He might have seen someone leave. Also, the council should collect no refuse bins till the team checks all contents. Maybe the killer disposed of the weapon or something else before leaving the street. Any sign of forced entry?'

'No, ma'am.'

'How many doors?

'One front door, which was left ajar.'

'Any open windows?' It was a vain question. Who in Mumbai had windows without metal grills? It was an invitation to burglars.

'None.'

'Who discovered the corpse?'

'A group of teenagers returning from a party saw the front door open; one of them lives on this floor. They rang the bell and when no one responded, one of them came in and found Mr Lele. He ran out to the rest of his group and they made the call at around 2:45. The four of them — two girls and two boys — stood at the entrance of the block till the uniformed police arrived. The group was forthcoming with a statement and provided their addresses in case we need to speak to them again. All of them live in this complex.'

‘Did either girl come inside the apartment?’ Rita was thinking of the floral scent.

‘No. Only one guy entered the apartment.'

‘No break-in then? So Adit Lele knew his killer and let him…or her in.'

‘It's the only explanation, as of now.'

‘Lele, did he live alone?'

‘Yes. Divorced five years back, ran a successful accounting firm somewhere near Dadar station.' Vikram was already into the case.

'I want his movements from the time he was last seen alive by someone.'

As soon the evidence recovery team was through, the body was tagged, shifted to a stretcher, velcro’ed and wheeled out to the ambulance that had been futilely waiting for a few hours now. Deliveries to the Mumbai morgue were no less frequent than supplies to any large grocery store; this would just be another parcel. A police constable — bless him — got Rita a strong coffee from the roadside in a
kullad
— a terracotta tumbler — as she, unblinkingly, looked at the body being moved into the vehicle. She was already gestated with the case before the stiff was driven away.

Who killed Adit Lele?

Was the gun there for self-defence and some dustup led to manslaughter? Or was it carried in with the premeditated purpose of murder? Whose gun was it? Merely because Lele was dead did not necessarily mean the gun belonged to the murderer. So many people in Mumbai owned unlicensed firearms. It could well be the victim's gun turned on him. If that was the case, the murderer might have disposed of the weapon on his or her way out.

Moreover, what about the knife wounds in the groin? Was someone avenging some past grudge? Lele might have been lewd towards another guy's girl who repaid with due interest, or maybe some girl delivered just desserts? Or was it symbolic for something Rita was missing? It might not be hunky-dory to surmise it was a female killer based on the floral female perfume and Lele being found bare-ass in bed, as it patently wasn't in the female psyche to butcher a man or his genitalia. Could that be, then, a shenanigan? If the scent was sprayed to mislead, it must evidently be a planned murder by a male; if the perpetrator intended to misguide, wouldn't he attempt to lead the cops astray with the widest margin? Or could it be — it was a flash of a new conjecture to Rita — there was a team where one distracted, the other killed? Or, maybe, a female, followed by a male, had visited Lele?

Possibly the male found him naked in bed after the female had left and shot him in that state? Perhaps the male, with an intention to seek revenge, found the stiff, but wanted to, nevertheless, mutilate? Conjectures, Rita reasoned, they were all conjectures at this moment and they needed to be kiboshed. The pathologist and forensics would give their reports, which should eliminate some speculations and explain the state of affairs. Patience, Rita, patience, you’re counting too early; let the eggs hatch.

6:30 a.m. Versova was lazily waking up to face the tragedy in their suburb. This place, despite a history of being a smugglers’ haven till the late-Seventies, was now a posh residential address for corporate executives, businessmen, telly stars. Mangal Nagar, of course, was a sore thumb amidst the rich and the glitterati. It wasn't exactly Dharavi, but not something one would like to associate with either. Respectable middle class people who couldn’t afford anything better lived here, and murder wasn't an everyday thing for them.

Therefore, deplorably, it had the strange power of captivation; people were drawn in like flies to a lidless pot of honey. Some ghoulish bystanders, interested in the event solely because it wasn't them on the stage, petered out only when the police camped on the street and visibility got impeded. Either that or morbid curiosity ceased to interest the covey for long.

It hadn't started raining yet. It was still. Still like the air, in some yogic stance, had held its breath. The temperature was touching 30?C, and the humidity doing its fair bit. Rita had given her trench coat to a constable to drop it in her vehicle. She could feel sweat exuding through body pores, droplets running between her shoulder blades down her spine, and travelling further down.

Mumbai had started stirring as the Gypsy drove Rita to Crawford Market — Mumbai Police HQ. Interesting buildings passed her by; some were new even for Rita. She had read about Mumbai once being an archipelago of seven islands. Owned by the very first colonisers, the Portuguese, for over 150 years till mid-Seventeenth century when they gave it as dowry to the English, at the wedding of King Charles II to some princess of Portugal whose name slipped her mind. It peeved her because she had been a history student. No wonder the city had an amalgam of Portuguese and Victorian architecture. Intensely engrossed in the imposing edifices, her otherwise keen nose had missed the highly appetising aroma of
masala chai
emanating from a few Iranian cafés along the way; originally opened by Persian immigrants to India in the 19th century, their tea, she had heard, was highly addictive.

“
Oh, a visit to Mumbai isn't complete without an Irani masala-chai. You don't go to London and not have fish and chips.”
Rita could almost hear Karan whisper in her ears.

Something else, Rita reckoned, without being able to put a finger on, was controlling her brain. The murder, of course. Too neatly done to be unplanned, to be manslaughter, she knew. She just knew it. As she entered the office building, a familiar saraband of the usual office telephones, photocopiers, facsimiles, clacking keyboards and office chatter greeted her. She took the elevator to her office, picked up a disgusting coffee from the nearest vending machine and walked into her cabin. A small sepulchre of an office housed a characterless workstation stacked with typical office paraphernalia. Bumf — thicker than
War and Peace —
more than she could read in a week had gathered at her desk overnight. Papers of this case, other investigations around the city and, business-as-usual vacation requests, stationery order forms, fuel bills, food bills, which she, without any feeling of remiss, signed without bothering to suss. Her officers worked arduously and sincerely, and she believed everyone appreciated their responsibility towards the state. Why, then, did they increase officialdom for her? To push her blood pressure above the Everest? Only bureaucracy knew how to complicate simplicity. Picking up the phone at her desk, she called for Jatin.

Inspector Jatin Singh had moved into her core team only a few weeks back. He was proving to be a valuable asset in the squad with his high levels of energy combined with a sharp brain. He was also her other Man Friday. An inch short of six feet, he was handsome and always impeccably attired. He had cherished the dream of being an actor in Bollywood, but his strict Brigadier father would take no such nonsense. The Brigadier wanted his son to be in uniform and Jatin chose the police over the armed forces.

'Good morning, ma'am.' He walked in with coffee within minutes. Dressed in a smart natural linen shirt and blue jeans, the 27-year-old had a simpatico persona.

'Good morning, Jatin. It hasn't been so good unfortunately. There's been a murder at Versova late last night.'

'I heard about it.'

'Good. Then I don't have to tell you that you're on the case from now. Please get an Operation Room ready...I have a feeling we are looking for a smart alec who leaves phony spoors to lead us astray. Forensics should tell us how well he’s covered his tracks.' Rita narrated what she had seen, and smelt, along with her surmise.

‘It might sound like echoing your thoughts, but I, too, think that it's got to be a male. Females don't stab or mutilate. The gunshot should have been enough even for a vindictive woman.'

Rita smiled. Another one supported her supposition. ‘Could be both, together or in tandem.’

‘Of course. I’ll get the room allotted quickly.’

'Vikram should take a while in getting back to HQ. I've asked him to check on Mr Adit Lele's — he's the one slain — movements from last evening onwards.’

Vikram was at Dadar at 9 a.m. He picked up tea from a nearby stall and headed towards Lele's eponymous firm — Adit Lele & Associates. The neat office on the second floor of an old, dilapidated Victorian building had opened, for the day, only a few minutes earlier.

Vikram showed his ID card to the receptionist and asked to speak to whoever was responsible in the absence of Mr Lele.

'No one's in yet, except Mr Lele's — he's the proprietor — personal assistant. Is everything okay?' the receptionist, a young girl of twenty-something, fearfully asked. No one in Mumbai liked to see the police. Hell, no one anywhere in the world liked to see the police in their offices.

'I'm afraid it's not good news. Adit Lele died at his apartment in Versova last night.'

‘How?’

‘He was shot.’

'Who shot him?'

'Well, we are investigating and I need your help. Could I see his personal assistant, please?'

'Yes. Follow me.' She came out from behind the desk and headed towards a closed door. Vikram followed. Opening the door, she called: 'Annie.'

Annie, wearing a grey skirt suit, rummaging through cabinet drawers turned around. 'Yes, Rose?'

'Mr Lele is shot, the police are here to see you.'

'Me?'

'Let me explain, Miss...'

'You can call me Annie.'

'We found Mr Lele dead at his residence, in Versova, in the early hours this morning.

Apparently, he was killed some time late last night. I am here to get, from you, any information you might have regarding his plans for yesterday evening. It might help us to reconstruct what happened.'

'I don't know. Who killed him?' Annie was hyperventilating.

'Relax,' said Vikram, and then turned to the receptionist. 'Could you get a glass of water for your colleague, please?’

Rose, eager to leave the room, ran out.

'Sit down please,' Annie told Vikram as she slumped into her chair. 'I honestly don't know what his plans were for the evening, inspector.'

'What were his usual evenings like? He must have, sometime, mentioned what he did on previous evenings? Who he met? Where he went? We know he was divorced a while back...was he seeing anyone?'

'Mr Lele wasn't seeing anyone particular, as far as I know. He didn't want to be involved in a relationship. It hindered his interests.'

'What kind of interests?'

Annie was about to utter something when Rose walked in with water. She left the two glasses on the desk between Annie and Vikram and, quickly, left the room closing the door behind her. Vikram knew she would park herself outside the door and eavesdrop, but it didn't matter.

'You were talking about Mr Lele's interests...'

'Nothing. I am not sure that would help.'

'May I request you to tell me everything you know about Mr Lele, please? Let me decide if the information helps or not please.’

'Adit wasn't a one-woman man.'

Vikram noted Mr Lele had become Adit. 'You mean he was a Casanova?' he questioned.

'More like Lothario. He was a philanderer. Oh…it’s not as bad as I make it sound.

Look, Adit liked women, the woman didn’t matter — young, old, beautiful, ugly — as long as the skirt was ready to jump into bed with him. After a few steamy sessions, he typically lost interest in the girl and moved on.'

Maybe some girl didn't appreciate his moving on, Vikram reflected. 'And none of the women he so dated, ever complained or created a fuss about it?'

'Some did and Mrs Lele found out about it, hence the divorce. She almost bankrupted him. Since then he was careful and discreet.'

'Any particular girl you'd seen with him in the last few weeks?'

'He never brought them to the office.' Annie was quick to answer what she believed was a daft question.

'Any close friend, male or female, who could give me more details of his personal life?'

'Not many.' She took out a diary and flipped through pages. 'Oh yes, some girl called him last night around 7 p.m. I took the call. She was looking for Adit.' Annie mimicked “Adit
”
in a husky voice. 'I asked her, "Who may I say is calling?" and she told me that she was a
personal
friend, didn't give me her name, but I know he was eager to take the call because when I relayed the message, he disconnected the business call and took this one.' Annie picked up one of phones at her desk and pressed a few buttons.

'This should be it. The call was a minute before seven. I remember because I was packing up for the day, this is the telephone number. Do you want it?'

'Of course.'

She scribbled it on her writing pad, tore the tiny sheet and passed it to him.

009715...

International number. Dubai.