Compass Box Killer

Piyush Jha
is an acclaimed film director, ad filmmaker and the author of the bestselling novel,
Mumbaistan
.

A student political leader at university, he pursued a career in advertising management after acquiring an MBA degree. Later, he switched tracks, first to make commercials for some of the country's largest brands, and then to write and direct feature films. His films include
Chalo America
,
King of Bollywood
and
Sikandar
.

He lives in his beloved Mumbai, where he can often be found walking the streets that inspire his stories.

Also available by the author:

Mumbaistan

Published by

Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2013

7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

New Delhi 110002

Sales centres:

Allahabad Bengaluru Chennai

Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu

Kolkata Mumbai

Copyright © Piyush Jha 2013

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

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The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Printed at [PRINTER’S NAME, CITY]

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

To my wife Priyanka,

whose continued belief in me is my greatest strength.

H
is hands were clasped around her throat. It hurt, but it
so
turned her on. The feeling was not entirely new to her—the pleasure of pain. The two times that they had been together before, he had pleasured her with it. Now, as he rubbed himself urgently against her body, she could feel him ready to oblige her again.

Today, though, things had moved so fast that she only just realized that they were still standing at the threshold of the door to her room. ‘Come with me,’ she whispered, tugging at his hands around her throat. He let his hands fall. Holding his left hand while taking a few tentative steps backwards, she pulled him towards the huge bathroom attached to the plush guest room of the sprawling bungalow. Once inside, she stepped towards the edge of the large bathtub that was already three-quarters full of foaming warm water.

When the Smooth Operator had knocked on her door a few minutes ago, she had been running a bath, waiting to soak herself in it. He had stepped inside and, without a word, enveloped her in his strong arms. She had responded to his soft, sensuous kiss more out of instinct than desire. He had taken this response as carte blanche and proceeded to fondle her breasts that were no longer fettered by the bra she had discarded on the bathroom floor. Protected only by a thin layer of the soft silk bathrobe she had hurriedly pulled on to answer the door, she had responded quickly to his touch. He had pushed apart the folds of her silk gown to let her breasts feel the slight nip in the November evening air in Khandala. Then, he had slid his tongue across her breasts to fully electrify her body into submission. The soft moan that had escaped from her lips had been a signal for his hands to move downwards, to the flat of her stomach. She had not allowed him to go lower, however, clasping her legs together and blocking his eager fingers. This was not because she didn’t want him, but because she was still enjoying his ministrations on her breasts. Soon, he had grown impatient. He wanted more. His greedy mouth had rapidly moved from one breast to the other and he had snaked his hands up to her throat, stroking it gently with his thumbs. She had moaned again. Suddenly, his tongue had turned rough, his hands tightening their grasp around her neck. A raw excitement had taken over her. She stopped resisting and had egged him on with her aroused shivers.

Now, as they reached the edge of the bathtub, she motioned for him to step into the water that was now overflowing with bubbles from the bubble-bath liquid she had poured in earlier. He took charge again, reaching for her bathrobe and peeling it off in one smooth motion until she stood naked. Growing wet with anticipation as he tore the clothes off his own body, she sank into the frothy water until nothing but her head could be seen rising out of the bubbles. He, too, lowered himself into the foam, sitting across from her. Spreading his legs across her slippery thighs, he interlocked them behind her back, pulling her close to him and pressed his lips against hers. As his tongue thrust into her mouth, she felt the now-familiar slide of his hands to her naked neck—but this time, his grip was tighter. Feeling slightly uncomfortable with his tightening chokehold, she squirmed a little, indicating that she wanted him to ease up, but realized that he was in no mood to let go. In an attempt to distract him, she reached out and stroked him underwater, only to discover that he was getting harder and harder with every little squeeze of her neck. Finding it difficult to breathe now, she tried to push him away but he seemed to get more aroused by this. He squeezed her neck harder and pressed himself against her.

Her body began to struggle, seeking release from his unyielding grip. She wanted to scream but no sound came out of her throat. Down below in the water, she could feel him between her legs, probing urgently, entering her. Her whole body thrashed against him in an effort to escape, but this only made him more frenzied as he continued to thrust himself roughly into her.

Suddenly, all energy drained from her body. Her limbs slackened and a black fog began to envelope her brain, dulling every painful sensation. Yet she was alert enough to recognize that the blackness spelt danger. Should she succumb to it, she would not see the brightness of another day.

Fear took control of her now; it gave her the strength she didn’t think she had. But she also knew that the adrenaline wouldn’t last long. In a last-ditch effort, her left hand broke free from his clutches and clattered against the side of the bathtub.
She had to escape
. Her fingertips grazed against her rumpled pair of jeans lying discarded on the floor. She felt something hard in its pocket.
Cell phone
, her brain screamed in recognition from the recesses of her foggy mind. She shifted her position with difficulty, continuing to feel his savage attack below the water. Deep down inside, she knew she was fighting a losing battle. Her fingers brushed against the keypad of the cell phone, feeling the shape of the letters engraved on each key. She pressed one key, then another. Press…press…press. Finally, the cell phone slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor next to the bathtub even as her fingers continued to press keys in the empty air long after the air in her lungs had died.

The Smooth Operator didn’t notice. In fact, he hadn’t been aware of anything for the past ten minutes—his mind had switched itself off as he sank deeper and deeper into the throes of ecstasy. The fact that her body had no life left in it made no difference to him in his animal state of arousal. It was only after he was fully spent that he noticed that her eyes had turned within her skull and that all he could see were the whites.

A ragged scream of realization escaped the Smooth Operator’s mouth as he finally released her throat and shrank back from her bubble-lathered corpse.

Mumbai

T
he young man, who would soon be known in the media as ‘The Compass Box Killer’, stood sweating in the sun. Beads of perspiration ran down the dark, exposed skin of his semi-naked shoulders and soaked the ragged, soft cloth of his banian. Some droplets found their way down to the earth, sliding down the thin, dark, almost hairless legs that stuck out of the baggy khaki shorts like cricket stumps. The killer’s hawk-like eyes, embedded in his youthful, gaunt face just below his wide forehead, were fixed upon the sign on the single-storey building in front of him: Wamanrao Marg Police Station.

The iconic police station, once known as the Robert Circle Police Station, had been in service since the times of the British. It is from here that police contingents were dispatched to foil the Quit India Movement of 1942. In the post-Independence boom, its strategic location between the areas of Byculla, Mumbai Central and Grant Road had granted it a special status when it came to policing nefarious activities in Mumbai’s oldest and most crowded neighbourhoods. It was said that the toughest policemen in Mumbai were posted here, due to whom many a criminal operating in the mean streets of Mumbai was meted out quick justice. Today, however, the police station was going to witness justice of a different kind.

Policemen of all shapes and sizes bustled in and out of the busy police station paying no attention to the young man standing right in front of them. He wasn’t a killer yet, but if the policemen could read his mind, they would have made all attempts to stop him in his tracks.

The young man drew in a deep breath and took a few steps forward; no one noticed him as he walked through the arched portals of the old British building into the large office area. From a corner, the blubbering whine of a battered wife seeking justice rose through the air, only to be drowned out by the loud guffaws of two police constables merrily watching their colleagues brutally slap the accused husband. Quick justice was the hallmark of Wamanrao Marg Police Station. The young man ducked into the wide passage that led around the office area. As he walked, his feet fell in step with the steady ‘clack-clack’ of an ancient typewriter emanating from somewhere deep within the cabins lining the passageway. The angry protests of a prostitute who had been held at the police station through the night could be heard in the background as the young man strode towards a swivel door that led into a large office chamber at the end of the passage. ‘Senior Inspector Tukaram Akurle’ was emblazoned across the door. An old, tired-looking police constable was dozing off on a wooden bench outside the office. The young man tip-toed up to the door, but the constable didn’t make a move, slumping deeper into his afternoon slumber, as was his daily routine. Emboldened, the young man parted the swivel door and entered the empty chamber inside, taking care not to make even the slightest noise.