Murder in Mumbai (6 page)

Chapter 5

About ten minutes after he woke up the morning after discovering Barton's body, ill prepared to deal with the world, Inspector Vijay Gaikwad knew it was going to be a bad day. Half-asleep, he staggered to the bathroom, urinated, and began brushing his teeth.

“Are you waking up?” he asked Lata, who had bundled herself into a little ball under the covers.

“Five minutes,” she replied, trying unsuccessfully to keep the new day at bay. “Make tea.”

Gaikwad looked at the clock on Lata's nightstand. He'd already missed his morning walk with Chitre. These days, it was the only exercise he was getting. He walked past the children's room to the sparsely furnished living room. He could see his son, Sachin, draw the covers over his head, hoping against hope his parents would leave him in bed so he could miss school. His daughter, Kavita, was already making her way to the bathroom.

Gaikwad thought of his relationship with his own father. He used to tremble at the man's voice. His words were the law. When his father came home from work in the evenings, it was expected that Gaikwad and his brothers and sisters were quiet until the old man finished listening to the news on All India Radio, after which he inquired after their homework and their academic progress. Yes, Gaikwad thought, times had changed. His son was emblematic of that change. The boy was fifteen and on the verge of his school-leaving examinations, one that could make or mar him for the rest of his life. But the boy's attitude toward school and toward life in general was dismissive, as if it were all a big joke. He was always in front of the television, watching inane programs, or playing cricket with the other idiots in the neighborhood, and then standing on corners and watching giggling teenage girls walk by. In short, anything but studying for the exams that had the potential of taking him to a better life. Gaikwad knew he shouldn't compare his children, and he would never have done it openly, but he couldn't help but wonder why his boy couldn't be more like his girl
.

He thought of the last time his wife had asked him to talk to the boy about taking his studies more seriously. The boy's replies were either flippant or monosyllabic. He did not seem to understand the world he was up against: one billion Indians, more Chinese, and the rest of the world. Gaikwad wanted his son to be more than he was, but the boy had little interest in anything but the most mindless fun.

His daughter, Kavita, on the other hand, was the polar opposite. Two years younger than her brother, star at her school; everything she touched turned into gold. They had more awards from her than they had place to display and Gaikwad and his wife were proud of her, proud that they had created this clever little girl. There was no need to worry about her, but his boy, yes—there were plenty of reasons to worry.
Why is it
, Gaikwad wondered,
that we spend our time worrying about the ones who don't live up to their ability?
Sometimes it felt to him that in their worry about their boy, they didn't encourage their daughter for her success. Success was almost expected of her. It seemed unfair to him and he thought he should bring it up with his wife.

He pushed the thoughts aside and opened the front door. He picked up the milk in the two plastic bags and the daily paper. The world might have moved on to websites and mobile news and the twenty-four-hour entertainment on TV they peddled as information, but in Gaikwad's world the paper was the civilized way of doing things, the way his father had done it. He remembered his own father sitting down at the table while his mother prepared breakfast: poha, a sort of puffed rice, and chai. The children were not allowed to talk as he read the paper, page by page, cover to cover, headline by headline, until he had perused it completely. Although he had never left the country, his father had been one of the most well-informed people Gaikwad had ever met. And though he had chosen a different path for himself—policing instead of teaching—the older he got the more he appreciated the habit that he had formed merely by watching the old man: reading the daily paper over a cup of tea.

Gaikwad put the papers on the table, the milk in the kitchen and walked over to say a little prayer to various Hindu gods and goddesses assembled in a shrine in the kitchen. Also in the shrine were a statue of the warrior king Shivaji and a picture of his and Lata's late parents. It was part of his daily routine (and it would be followed by a brief stop at the temple outside the building on his way to work). Did Gaikwad believe in God? He didn't know the answer to that. He put the daily prayers down to a sort of insurance policy, in case God did exist.

The water for the tea was boiling. Gaikwad carefully added the tea leaves and then the milk. One spoon of sugar each for himself and Lata. He poured three-quarters of the cup on the saucer and turned the fan on, so it could cool faster. He blew into the contents of the cup and took a sip. It needed more sugar but the doctor had asked him to reduce his sugar intake. His thoughts were interrupted by Lata's approaching footsteps.

“Good morning,” she said as she walked into the room and into his arms. He'd never been physically affectionate, but she was and he'd not only become used to it, but had grown to like it. “You missed your walk this morning.”

“Yeah, I know. Tomorrow that Chitre will be pulling my leg about it.”

Lata smiled. “Are you ready for the day?”

“No,” he said, and sighed. “I'm never ready.”

* * *

Two hours later, Gaikwad was at work. His first order of business was John Barton. The American had identified his wife's body. He had agreed to come to the station to answer a few questions. Gaikwad had been as sympathetic as he could be when he first met Barton, but there were too many things that he'd said that just didn't add up. The TV channels had been relentless in their coverage of the case and their pursuit of the killer or killers. DCP Khan was demanding results fast.

Gaikwad went over the case details. The post-mortem had said Liz Barton had been dead for at least a week. She'd been struck on the head. She'd been killed elsewhere, concealed, and brought to the dump. Could her husband have done it?

Gaikwad liked to begin each murder case by getting to know the victim. Murders often focused on the last few days of a victim's life and the next few days, if investigators were lucky, would focus on catching the killer. But little, if any, attention was paid to what the person was like. What his or her story was, what motivated them, moved them, what they feared. And he felt that when he asked a surviving husband or wife to talk about their spouse, it opened them up to other, more probing, questions later.

Almost on cue, John Barton entered.

“Hello, inspector,” he said.

“Good of you to come,” Gaikwad said. “Again my condolences.”

“Thank you. How can I help you?”

Gaikwad ordered the constable to bring a Coke and a glass, and ordered a chai for himself.

“What was your wife like, sir?” he asked.

Barton took a deep breath.

“I can't believe she's gone,” he said. “Inspector, are you married?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you know how it is. It's hard to live without them.”

Gaikwad nodded.

“She was so excited about coming here. It was a dream come true for her. She was always talking about coming to India. Her parents were here in the sixties, you know. They loved it. They used to call her their Indian baby. She was conceived in this city.”

“What did she think of it?”

“The truth—she loved this city, but couldn't help but be shocked by what she saw here. Her feelings were complex. She found it vibrant, liberating, contradictory, chaotic, exhilarating. At the same time, she detested much of what she loved.

“She found the chaos stifling; the contradictions depressing. There's no privacy here, no silence. She missed that about home. The solitude.”

The constable arrived silently with the tea and Coke. He poured the tea into a slightly cracked white cup and the Coke into a large glass. Gaikwad took the tea, pointed to the drink, and gestured to Barton. “Please.”

“Thank you, inspector.” He took a sip.

When he first began this job, Gaikwad was confused when someone bereaved performed such banal actions. Was it a sign of guilt? But as time went on, he realized that these actions were non-voluntary. It was as if a body that was in shock was performing them to subconsciously relieve pressure. Barton drained half the glass with his first sip. Gaikwad wondered if he'd eaten anything since he'd heard about his wife. But he decided to press on with the questions.

“Did she enjoy her work?”

“Yes,” he said wistfully. “It was her life. The global recession hit us like it hit everyone. She lost her job on Wall Street. It devastated her. Then this opportunity came along; it seemed like a sign from heaven. She immediately jumped at it. And she loved the challenges of working here. Of being in a new place. Of being in a new field. Of being so removed from our old lives.”

“What about you, sir?” Gaikwad asked. “What did you think?”

“Initially, I was very happy,” he replied. Gaikwad could see sadness creep into his eyes.

“Initially?”

“It was exciting,” he said. “The opportunity was exciting. There weren't any jobs on Wall Street for her at the time. This came along at the right moment. I just wanted what was best for her. Besides, inspector, she has always been more ambitious than me.”

Gaikwad noticed that he had used the present tense, as if unable to acknowledge that she was gone.

“What do you mean?”

“She spent her time climbing the corporate ladder. I've spent the last ten years writing a book that at this point may never come out. But I was excited—excited about coming here. I thought it would finally give me the impetus needed to finish the revisions on the novel.”

“What is it about—the novel?” Gaikwad asked, hoping he could use it to gain insight into this man.

“About a man's search for himself, inspector,” Barton said.

“Does he find himself?”

“I thought so, inspector. Now I'm not so sure. I was hoping this time would allow me to gain some more insight into the subject. Instead I'm here talking to you, with my wife lying dead in the morgue.”

“Did she have any enemies?”

“Personally, no,” he said. “But professionally she could be cold. It's tough to be a woman in the workplace. More so at the top. Even more so in India.”

Gaikwad nodded. Although there were some high-profile women officers on the force, the police department remained overwhelmingly male.

“But I steered clear away from that part of her life,” Barton said.

“Why?”

“Well, inspector, to tell you the truth, it never struck me in the U.S., but I felt useless here. And as excited as I was to come here, I couldn't wait to leave. Her job became what was keeping us here.

“This might offend you, inspector, and let me apologize if it does, but it can be quite a culture shock coming to this country, this city. No matter how I try, I can't get out the grime, dust, and sweat that cling to my skin and seep through my pores.

“The fact that I'm a house husband is shocking to most people here. I am—was—the only male among the non-working spouses and partners. I felt patronized by some of her colleagues. The Westerners hide it well, because they are excellent at pretending, but the Indians didn't even bother to hide their disapproval.”

Gaikwad took in what he said, but didn't react.

“There are a few things about your wife's murder that I don't understand,” he said. “I was hoping you'd straighten them out for me.”

“I'll do what I can.”

“We've ascertained that your wife was killed a week ago. Where were you that Tuesday?”

“Me?”

“It's a routine question, sir, we have to ask it.”

“I told you. Madh Island. We couldn't come back. Liz was in Singapore. She came back early.”

“Why didn't you go with her?”

“It was work, inspector. She didn't need me tagging along there, too. And as I told you before, I liked to stay out of that part of her life.”

“Was there anything unusual that she experienced before she left? Anything that troubled her?”

Gaikwad could see Barton wanted to say something more, but that he was hesitating.

“Whatever it may be,” he said.

“Nothing, inspector,” Barton said. “I can't think of anything.”

Gaikwad could tell he was lying.

“OK. And who were you in Madh Island with?”

“Friends.”

“Friends who can corroborate you were with them?”

The blood drained from Barton's already-pale face as he realized where the questions were leading.

“It's delicate, inspector.”

“I need a name.”

“Uma Rhys.”

“And what is the nature of your relationship with her?”

“As I said, inspector, it's a delicate matter.”

“I need an answer, sir. Murder is a most indelicate matter.”

“We were—for want of a better term—romantically involved,” he said. “She's married, too.”

“Were?”

“It's tenuous.”

“I'll need her address and number.”

John reluctantly wrote the information down and handed it to Gaikwad.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me, sir?”

“No, inspector. That's all.”

“Another thing I can't understand, sir. Perhaps you can shed light.”

“I'll do what I can, inspector.”

“When I came to visit you, you were unaware of her death. Yet, the news seemed to be around the city for a while. No one had called you?”

“I don't know what to tell you, inspector. I really had no idea.”

“But you had CNN on, and I know they reported it.”

Barton looked sheepish.