Compass Box Killer (13 page)

But he did understand the way she felt. He understood every bit of it.

Still on his knees in front of Tracy’s grave, the killer felt his tears mix with the raindrops as they fell hard on the ground. He wished, as he had every single day since, that he had picked up his phone and called Tracy back that fateful night.

A
s Virkar rode from the Christian Cemetary to Katrak Villa in the rain, he kept trying to figure out why a police officer, a doctor and an NGO activist would conspire to cover up the car accident of a British woman in Khandala.

On entering his room, Virkar quickly stripped off his wet clothes and changed back into the faded jeans and T-shirt he had worn earlier that morning. He then headed for Pesi’s living quarters in the outhouse of Katrak Villa to ask for directions to the nearest bar. He was advised to go to Pesi’s favourite, the Ryewood Bar. Pesi was in a magnanimous mood and even lent him his old knee-length raincoat—the khaki-coloured, rubber-blended ‘duckback’ that went out of fashion a few decades ago. But it suited Virkar just fine, keeping him dry as he quickly made his way to the bar.

As was the case with many older establishments in the Khandala-Lonavala area, at 9.00 p.m. on a rainy night, the spacious confines of the Ryewood Bar were almost empty save for a smattering of people. The newer generation of visitors to Khandala and Lonavala yearned for excitement rather than rest and relaxation. They favoured the brightly lit bars equipped with TV sets that blared non-stop Bollywood music from high-wattage speakers, drowning out any possibility of conversation.

Virkar entered the bar and sat on a stool in a corner. Opposite him, three white-haired pensioners were deep in conversation, discussing the intricacies of their LIC policies. At another table, a young couple whispered sweet-nothings to each other. A few tables away from them, a thin man wearing a floppy cricket hat that covered most of his face sat staring down at his glass. The only person who seemed to acknowledge Virkar’s presence was the sleepy-looking barman, who looked as though he would do anything for the warm comfort of his bed at that moment.

Doctor’s brandy with warm water was Virkar’s choice that evening. As a young boy, Virkar had seen his father drinking copious amounts of it straight from the quarter-bottles. When he had enquired as to why his father drank the strong-smelling liquid, he had been told that it was medicine for his perennial cold, leading Vikar to associate Doctor’s brandy with a cure for cold. It was only in his early twenties that he found out that brandy was a no-nonsense alcoholic beverage. The ‘Doctor’s’ label was only a sales gimmick employed by marketers who wanted to give people an excuse to imbibe alcohol without guilt.

Virkar stretched his legs out in front of him and let the sharp liquid work its way down his throat. The brandy gave his body some warmth, but it was his soul that needed it more. He mulled over the reasons for his personal interest in finding out the truth about Tracy’s death. During his decade-long career in the police, he had become used to death staring him in the face. But it was always especially difficult for him when the victim was a woman. Each time he heard or read about a crime against a woman, an inner voice would wish he had been there to protect the woman. He always shivered involuntarily when faced with the brutality of someone who had raised a weapon or otherwise snuffed the life out of a member of the gentler sex. He just couldn’t get used to it, and somewhere deep inside, he didn’t particularly want to.

Virkar’s thoughts tumbled together as he worked his way down the brandy glass. Who would kill a kind, charitable woman like Tracy? Surrounded by the crime and corruption that was the part and parcel of a policeman’s life, Virkar had always been in awe of those who could keep their life uncompromised—especially if it was to serve others selflessly without getting caught up in the trappings of power and prestige. And from what he ’d heard from Lourdes, Tracy seemed to be that kind of a person. As a man of the law, he owed it to her to find the cause of her death, even if he was unsuccessful in catching the Compass Box Killer. Tracy had travelled all the way from Britain to Mumbai to help the unprivileged and yet someone had done her wrong. Virkar’s mouth set in a thin line. He had made up his mind. He was going to get her justice, no matter how risky the journey was.

Virkar looked up from his empty glass and the barman’s practised eyes connected with his. Before Virkar could react, the barman walked up to him with the steel peg-measure full to the brim. However, he poured only a 30 ml peg into Virkar’s glass.

‘How did you know I wanted a small?’ Virkar asked.

The barman smiled. ‘After three quick, large ones, your type normally switches to small pegs.’

Stung by the barman’s words, Virkar tried to find a fitting reply but couldn’t. Standing up, he pushed his bar stool back which scraped against the old wooden floorboards, making a loud sound. Except the thin man in the floppy cricket hat who seemed to be drowning in his drink, everyone in the bar turned to stare at him. Ignoring everyone’s gaze, Virkar drew his wallet and extracted a slightly damp thousand-rupee note. He laid it on the bar counter, flung a dirty look at the barman and walked out of the bar into the drizzle. Once outside, he wore his raincoat, got on to the Bullet and rode out on to the narrow path that met the main road. Just as he turned a corner, the headlights of a car shone directly into his eyes, blinding him for an instant. ‘Aai cha gho!’ Virkar cursed as he stepped hard on his brakes and brought the Bullet to a sharp stop. He had narrowly avoided a collision. Gearing up for an argument, Virkar got off his Bullet.

‘Had one too many, Inspector?’ a familiar voice called out from the driver’s seat and then broke into peals of laughter. Virkar stopped in his tracks. Now that the car’s headlights were switched off, he could see the figure sitting at the steering wheel. Raashi.

‘Judging by your expression, one would think you’re not too happy to see me,’ she said, dissolving into a fresh fit of giggles.

Virkar could only manage a self-conscious, ‘I…uh…uh…’

‘It’s okay, Inspector. I ’d be just as surprised as you are had you suddenly appeared in front of me like this.’

Virkar finally managed a slurred question. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to help you, of course!’ Raashi grinned. ‘You’re a hard man to find, though. I looked for you in over twenty hotels till I got to Katrak Villa. Pesi was kind enough to guide me here. I was just heading to the bar to join you.’

Virkar stood in the middle of the road, shifting from one foot to the other, not knowing how to react.

Raashi noticed his discomfort and asked teasingly, ‘So, are we going to continue talking like this in the open, or should we head to the bar?’

Virkar hesitated. ‘Uh…I don’t… There is no place inside. It’s packed.’

Raashi nodded and turned the key in the ignition. She started backing up the car. ‘No problem, Inspector. I’ve taken a room at Katrak Villa too.’ She paused and added, ‘We can either talk in my room or in yours. You decide.’ She stepped on the accelerator and expertly reversed the car down the path and on to the main road. Virkar was left standing in the dark with only his Bullet for company and the buzz of the three and a half pegs of Doctor’s brandy rapidly disappearing from his system. He stood motionless for almost a minute, debating his next move. Then, straddling the Bullet, he fired up the engine and muttered under his breath, ‘Bhagwan jab deta hai, toh thappad kaan ke neeche deta hai.’

As the tail light on Virkar’s Bullet receded down the darkened path, the killer emerged from Ryewood Bar and took off his floppy cricket hat from his head. Folding it up and shoving it into his trouser pocket, he began to walk towards the main road.

‘H
e’s killing me,’ flashed the message in front of his half-shut eyelids. He picked up his phone and read the text that had woken him up in the wee hours of the morning.

This has to be another one of her stupid, flirtatious jokes
, was the first thought that popped into his groggy head. He let the phone slip out of his fingers and on to the bed. Turning, he snuggled into his blanket and let himself slip back into its warm cosiness. As sleep overtook him again, he wished Tracy would see reason and get over her obsession with the Smooth Operator.

The killer snapped out of his reverie; the events of that fateful night in 2004 never stayed far from his mind.
Be careful what you
wish for, just in case it comes true
, thought the killer as he walked along the six kilometres of dark highway that stretched between Khandala and Lonavala. He was careful enough to walk in the trench that ran along the highway so that he wasn’t in the direct path of any oncoming vehicle, especially one whose driver was drunk. The clouds that had brought the insistent drizzle earlier in the day had passed by now, leaving the moon to light his path. The wind blew cold against his face as his mind wandered back to the morning after he had received that text message from Tracy.

That day, he had slept almost until noon. Feeling hot and dehydrated when he had finally woken, he had reached for the bottle of water on his bedside table. As the cool water gushed down his throat, he remembered Tracy’s text from the previous night. He still didn’t believe her text had meant anything serious but feeling a little regretful about not having returned her call, he decided that Tracy had been ignored enough. He groped around his bedsheets and found his phone. Bracing himself for Tracy’s anger, he pressed the return call button.

‘This phone is out of coverage area,’ the recorded voice informed him. He tried her number again after a few minutes, only to get the same automated message.

‘She’s probably picnicking on some hilltop with her blessed Smoothy,’ he had muttered to himself.

However, a strange uneasiness niggled at the back of his head. He tried her number throughout the day and got the same response. By early evening, he began to grow restless. He started thinking of all the possible ways that he could get in touch with her in Khandala. Soon, he realized that he had no other option but to contact the Smooth Operator. But he didn’t know anything about this man bar the nickname Tracy had given him. He wondered if this man was well-known in Mumbai’s social circles as the Smooth Operator or if it had solely been Tracy’s nickname for him. He wished for the umpteenth time that he had asked Tracy for the man’s real name. But no, he had been too busy sneering at her liason with him to do so.

He rushed to a nearby cyber cafe and searched for ‘Smooth Operator’ on the Internet. He only came up with several listings for the pop song,
Smooth Operator
, sung by a British musician called Sade. Frustrated, he then searched the Internet for Tracy’s friend, Nigel Colasco. He was the one who had introduced Tracy to the Smooth Operator. There were a few people listed under that name, but only one matched the kind of professional profile that Tracy had spoken of. Luckily, he found the phone number of Colasco’s NGO. He then headed to the nearest STD booth and called the number. Three rings later, the phone was picked up by a peon. After two minutes, though, he hung up, having been informed that Colasco was out of town on some urgent business. Apparently, some friend of his had borrowed and crashed his car in Khandala. A knot formed in his stomach. He instantly knew that something was very, very wrong.

The following morning, he packed a bag and made his way to the train station. He bought himself a ticket to Lonavala and, while waiting for the train to arrive, he bought every possible newspaper at the A. H. Wheeler stall. Sitting on a bench in one corner of the railway platform, he rifled through every page, hoping against hope that he would not come across any bad news. But buried deep within the inner pages of the
Times of
India
’s Mumbai edition was a small report that reported that a British woman called Tracy Barton had died in a car accident in Khandala two nights ago.