Chain of Custody (13 page)

She sat crouched in a corner with her knees to her chest. There were tear stains on her face and welts on her calves. Moina was right. She was a child. But most of them were children when they came there.

I didn't know what it was about the girl, but I wanted to be with her. I knew I would not be able to think of anything but her face now.

9 M
ARCH
, M
ONDAY

S
id stepped out of the ATM. His account balance had been at an all-time low but Rekha's evening with the lawyer had made him flush for now. He hadn't told her the exact amount he had been paid. He had kept most of it for himself and would give her some of it to splash around.

Diagonally opposite the ATM was the college Rekha went to. She had classes till four. She used to like it when he popped in at the canteen and surprised her. But she hadn't sounded pleased when he said he was waiting for her at the college gates. He didn't understand what had changed over the weekend. Rekha didn't message him any more like she used to. He was certain that she was keeping something from him. He glanced at his phone to see if she had messaged.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the cucumber seller push his cart closer to him. He seemed to have added pineapples in a glass case to his wares. The man took a pineapple and began to cut away the shell. ‘So it worked out all right last time?' he asked from the corner of his mouth.

Sid leaned forward on his bike, slouching over the petrol tank. ‘Yes,' he said.

‘There's another one coming up,' the man said, his sharp knife separating the shell from the flesh of the fruit evenly. In about six strokes, the pineapple was shorn of its bristly shell. Sid watched in fascination as the knife sliced through the flesh.

‘Are you up to it?' he asked, not lifting his eyes from the fruit he was cutting into discs.

‘Same like last time?' Sid asked, tempted by the thought of the money.

‘No, more,' the man said, sprinking a few grains of white dust on the pineapple.

‘What's that?' Sid asked.

‘Salt … what did you think? Meow meow?' The man grinned. ‘Though now that you have put the thought into my head, it may be worth trying … I hear the White Magic is a big hit in Mumbai. Everybody is into it.'

Sid shuddered. He would think twice about buying fruit from these fellows.

The man began stacking the pineapple slices into the glass box. ‘The only thing is, these guys speak English which is beyond me. So I'll give you a number and you could call them …'

The man pulled his phone out from beneath the plastic sheet on the cart and scrolled through it. He mumbled a number. Sid entered the number in his phone and pressed the call button. There was no harm in making the call, he told himself.

He looked up then and saw Rekha come through the college gates. A secret smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Sid felt his heart plummet.

Rekha shook her head. ‘No, I don't want to,' she said.

Sid stared at her, perplexed. ‘Why?'

‘I just don't want to. Sanjay says that I should be careful,' Rekha said and took a lick of the ice cream cone.

They were sitting on the steps of Garuda Mall with a double-scoop of ice cream each. She her very berry flavour and he rum 'n' raisin. It was one of their favourite things to do. Once in a while they would exchange cones. The thought of tasting each other's saliva was more pleasurable than the cool sweetness of the ice cream.

‘Who is Sanjay?' Sid asked, feeling a black curl of jealousy twist around his tongue.

‘The man I met last Friday. He is a lawyer and really nice. He said it was fortunate that I got him. Not all men are as decent,' Rekha said, pushing a strand of hair from her face.

‘Oh,' Sid murmured and then, unable to stop himself, he asked, ‘So have you been in touch after that?'

Rekha shrugged. ‘Couple of times. He checked to see if I got home all right. And then just a hello text.'

Sid looked away. She was lying. He could sense that. When she went to the loo, he took out her phone from her bag. He knew the password. It was what she called him: SIDDU.

He opened her message inbox. The lawyer and she had been messaging each other. Since the morning, there had been at least ten messages from him. Tediously typed full texts typical of his age, Sid thought as he read through them. How is my baby girl?/ Don't miss a class. Get an education first./What are you wearing?/ Take notes. There are no shortcuts!/ Why do you need a boyfriend? He will just make you lose focus!

The bastard, Sid thought. Motherfucking bastard. Pretending to be avuncular and drawing her to him like a spider spinning a
web. He snapped the phone shut and put it back into her bag. And Rekha, how could she? Shit. Fucking shit. Any man, it seemed, could sweet-talk his way into her heart and panties. Bitch!

‘What are you growling at?' Rekha's voice, her sweet cheating voice, whispered in his ear.

He turned towards her. You bitch, he thought. If you are so eager to give it around, give some to whoever I ask you to. ‘Do this one more time. It's a lot more money and I am seriously broke. I need you to do this for me, Rex.'

He saw the confusion and fear in her eyes. He squeezed her arm. ‘Please,' he said. ‘I won't ask again.'

She nodded. ‘When?'

‘I'll let you know,' he said.

He would ask for 25K this time. ‘And she isn't a call girl,' he would say firmly. ‘So no touching or feeling. You will need to explain this to your client.'

Who was he fooling? No one was going to pay 25K just to sit across a table and watch a girl suck on a straw. He didn't particularly care any more. He would be out of her life after tomorrow.

He called the number again.

In the early evening light, the station house seemed even more decrepit and shabby. Once upon a time, as evening descended, they would have begun to wind up operations. Nothing much ever happened in a rural settlement after dark. Not any more, Gowda thought as he rode into the compound on his Bullet. The size of the station itself had changed.

They had two separate divisions – one to handle law and order and the other to handle crime. He was the station head
and oversaw both. But each division had its own set of officers. Two ASIs, two SIs and several constables manned each division. And two station writers. The tight ship he had run had become a cruise liner, he told himself. He glanced at his watch as he walked into the station. It was a little past four.

A group of men huddled in front of the station writer's table stared at him curiously.

‘Is there any point in approaching him?' one of the men asked.

The station writer grimaced. ‘Pointless! It's all about rules for him.'

‘What's to be done then?' The man frowned. It was a clear case of trespass but the trespasser claimed he had papers to prove that his claim on the land was as valid.

‘It's about how the FIR is lodged,' the station writer murmured.

The man peered into the station writer's face. ‘Oh,' he said after a pause.

Somewhere a phone rang. The man sat up to make an offer to the station writer but before he could speak, a constable appeared. ‘Gowda sir wants to see you,' he said.

The station writer pushed his glasses up his nose and stood up.

Gowda had a stack of brown files in front of him. He waved to the writer to sit down. Gowda had had a long and frustrating afternoon trying to chase Teja bhai. He had drawn a blank among his informer networks and his most trusted informer, Mohammed, was unreachable. He would have to get a couple of constables to scour the streets. In times of acute staff shortage, it was going to be hard. When people complained about inadequate policing, they needed to remember that there was one policeman for every thousand citizens of this city.

He had begun examining the case diaries almost as a matter of routine but he felt his foul mood worsen when he noticed something was awry.

No one knew better than Gowda just how crucial the role of the station writer was. Some of them could teach High Court judges a thing or two about points of law. They knew exactly how to lodge a complaint depending on who was bribing them. And Zahir, the new station writer, was a pro at what he did.

‘What's going on?' he asked without any preamble.

‘I don't understand, sir,' the station writer said.

‘Don't play the fool with me, Zahir.' Gowda frowned. ‘I've been keeping an eye on you. I am talking about the FIRs you lodge. Somehow it's always the accused who gets the benefit of the doubt and not the complainant.'

Zahir put on his most aggrieved look. ‘Sir, I don't know who is gossiping about me. But you must realize that because of my religion, I am a target.'

‘Stop it,' Gowda snapped, leaning forward. ‘Don't you dare play the religion card here. I don't know how it was in the station that you were in before, but here I make my decisions based on what I observe. Do you understand?'

Zahir flushed.

‘I see that the Muddelmal register shows that most of the recovered stolen property is still here at the station. Why is that?'

Zahir looked at a point above Gowda's head. ‘The owners haven't come to collect it.'

‘Let them know, Zahir. Until you do, how will the complainant know that it has been recovered?' Gowda looked at the file pointedly.

Zahir stood for a moment, then left. As he went out, he passed Santosh, who was walking in. He heard Gowda snarl, ‘What?'

Santosh felt the insides of his belly descend to his knees. How could someone do this to him at his age, he asked himself. It was like going to the school headmaster's room all over again.

‘Sir,' he said, pulling himself together.

Gowda stared at him, waiting for him to go on.

Something about the stare tied his tongue and thoughts into knots. ‘Sir,' he tried again as his mind raced to form an opening sentence that would get Gowda's attention.

‘Are you going to stand here sirring me or are you going to say something more?' Gowda growled.

It had occurred to Santosh in the past two days that Gowda had mellowed. The cantankerousness that had been such a part of him seemed to have retreated. Obviously it hadn't. ‘Sir,' he said. ‘We had a breakthrough in the Nandita case investigation.'

Gowda waved for him to sit. ‘Tell me.'

‘Ratna met a few of Nandita's classmates today and one girl who seems to have been Nandita's confidante said that she may have gone to the Basilica to pray. Something about a scholarship she was hoping to get,' Santosh said, watching Gowda's face for a glimmer of a smile.

Instead there was curious blankness.

‘So we went there this afternoon, and Ratna who knows a flower seller there made some enquiries,' Santosh continued.

‘And …' Gowda asked, again that curious flat note in his voice.

‘The woman remembered her. She said that she had wondered about a girl in school uniform all by herself. But then she saw there was a woman with her.'

‘And they got into an auto and left,' Gowda concluded for him.

Santosh stared, too surprised to speak. ‘How did …' he began after a pause.

Gowda leaned back in his chair. ‘I was there yesterday and I heard from another source just about the same details. The auto belongs to a man called Teja bhai who suddenly seems to have disappeared from the face of earth.'

‘I wish you had told us,' Santosh said. ‘We could have saved so much time.'

Gowda flushed. ‘I should have,' he admitted. He hadn't meant to keep the team out of the loop but he was used to doing things on his own. It had been unprofessional of him.

It was turning dark outside, and through the window mesh the hum of mosquitoes had grown into a steady drone. One of the constables knocked and came in bearing a lit mosquito coil. The heavy acrid smoke swirled through the room. Santosh coughed. Gowda pushed the glass of water on his table towards him. Santosh, eyes streaming, grabbed the glass hastily and drank the water to quell the irritation in his throat.

‘What were you saying?' Santosh asked, shoving the coil to a distant corner of the room.

‘Nothing of consequence.' Gowda shrugged.

‘There's more, sir.' Santosh's voice wobbled.

Santosh cleared his throat. ‘The flower seller said she thought she recognized the woman. Which is why she didn't ask Nandita what she was doing on her own. That's what she told Ratna.'

Santosh paused and swallowed.

‘Her name is Mary, sir, and apparently she is a recruiter.'

‘You are certain about that?' Gowda asked.

‘Mary is well known in those areas, sir, and it isn't as if the flower seller is an innocent woman. She used to sell ganja along with her flowers and that's how Ratna knows her.'

‘This Ratna is smart. What do you think?' Gowda asked with a small smile.

Santosh had mentioned Ratna's name about six times in the past twenty minutes.

‘She is very smart, sir. And, sir, she is a Gowda like us and she is from Hassan.' Instantly realizing that he was treading dangerous territory, Santosh hastened to add, ‘Her grandfather is Veerendra Gowda, the freedom fighter and poet.'

Gowda's eyes narrowed. Santosh flushed. Why had he mentioned that she was a Gowda? Once, he had thought that Inspector Gowda would accept him and make him one of his own if he knew that Santosh belonged to the Gowda caste as well. He had hoped that would cut him some slack even. That was what he had been told – that the police force was built on tiers of caste. You could be sure of unswerving allegiance and loyalty from your castemen. Except in the case of Gowda. Any reference to the caste equation only annoyed him. Santosh reached for the glass of water again.