Breaking and Entering
Page 1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
BREAKING AND ENTERING
An Inspector Ghote Mystery
H.R.F. Keating
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First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Macmillan.
This eBook edition first published in 2020 by Severn House Digital,
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.
Copyright © 2000 by H. R. F. Keating.
Introduction copyright © 2020 by Vaseem Khan.
The right of H. R. F. Keating to be identified as the author of this work and the right of Vaseem Khan to be identified as the author of the introduction has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0406-6 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
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INTRODUCTION
Sitting on my bookshelf in my east London study is a twenty-year-old and somewhat dog-eared copy of The Perfect Murder. Some of the pages are marked by my own all but illegible scribbles, others are crinkled by a combination of damp and rainwater; not just any rain, mind you, but honest-to-goodness monsoon rain. I bought the book from a roadside seller while living in Mumbai in my twenties, the sort of grinning, roadside sprite that is as much in evidence in H.R.F. Keating’s 1960s vision of India as he was in the India I found myself in. I’d gone there in 1997 to work as a management consultant, and ended up spending ten wonderful years ‘in-country’. My parents hailed from the subcontinent but I’d grown up in Thatcher’s Britain – all I knew of India came from hazy memories handed down to me by my father (he’d been unceremoniously shunted across the newly-created border to Pakistan as a child during Partition) and bits and pieces I’d gleaned from Bollywood movies.
The India that I discovered was a nation on the cusp of transformation, a country beginning the journey from a semi-industrialised agrarian economy – the post-colonial India that Keating introduced to us decades earlier and that had largely stagnated since – to the status, today, of superpower-in-waiting. A country of swamis and snake charmers – as it had always been – but now, increasingly, a country of call-centres and coffee shops, of shopping malls and software firms, of MTV and McDonald’s. A country that Inspector Ghote would find both recognisable and wholly beyond his imagining.
By the time I returned to the UK, a decade later, I had already decided that I would encapsulate those incredible memories of India into a novel. The result was The Unexpected Inheritance of Inspector Chopra, the first in my Baby Ganesh Agency series. These crime stories, featuring a policeman forced into early retirement from the Mumbai police service and subsequently compelled to ‘adopt’ a one-year-old baby elephant, are my attempt to chronicle the tumultuous landscape of the India that I observed first-hand. Five novels and two novellas in the series later, I can admit that these tales of the subcontinent owe a debt to H.R.F. Keating’s Inspector Ghote series.
Back when I was casting around for a suitable template upon which to base The Unexpected Inheritance of Inspector Chopra, my eye alighted on that old copy of The Perfect Murder. I had already had the idea of a policeman who inherits a baby elephant, but I was seeking inspiration that such a work – a crime novel set on the subcontinent – might find an audience. The modern publishing industry was not prone to experimentation, or so my investigations at the time informed me.
As I reread Keating’s novel and recalled the success that his series had enjoyed, I was emboldened. Two years later I completed my manuscript and whizzed it off to a small selection of agents. The rest, as they say, is history.
My protagonist, Inspector Ashwin Chopra, could not be more different to Inspector Ghote. Whereas Ghote is a timid, sometimes obsequious fellow, often forced to bend to the prevailing winds of authority, Chopra is a rigid, bristly-moustachioed man, unfailingly honest, and intractably unyielding. And yet in their DNA we find a common gene – an unwavering commitment to that dark flame that flickers so elusively on the subcontinent – justice. For India is a place where justice is often at the mercy of those with wealth and power. This did not sit well with Ghote, and neither does it sit well with Chopra.
Both Keating and I set out to bring to life these two policemen and the city that they inhabit – Bombay/Mumbai – India’s city of dreams. Yet the respective roads that we travelled to do so could not have been more different. I spent ten years living and working in India; Keating only visited India for the first time a decade after The Perfect Murder was published.
That being the case, one might rightly ask why he chose the subcontinent as his muse in the first place? The answer: he picked up an atlas, flicked through it, and randomly chanced upon a map of India. From such moments of serendipity are legends born.
The novel that Keating subsequently wrote was published in 1964 and entitled The Perfect Murder. It featured Inspector Ganesh Ghote (pronounced Goh-té) of what was then known as the Bombay crime branch, a detective of considerable resourcefulness and tenacity. Ghote is not your typical western policeman. There is little of the maverick about him, no melodrama, no bitter divorces in his past (he is dedicated to his wife Protima), no hard-charging, hard-drinking machismo. He is a minor cog within a vast engine of bureaucracy and at the same time accepts this and chafes against it. He is set above the common man – by virtue of his uniform – and yet condemned to forever belong to the lower echelons of that vast stratified populace that gives India such colour and depth. Time and again in these immensely readable novels we see Ghote at the mercy of bombastic senior officers, villainous landlords and wealthy industrialists. In the face of abuse, obstacles and evil machinations, Ghote remains undeterred, finding his way to resolution in every case through a combination of understated intellect and quiet bloody-mindedness. When asked about the genesis of his seminal character, Keating would later reply, ‘Inspector Ghote came to me in a single flash: I pictured him exactly as he was, transposed as it were by some magic arc from Bombay to London. It was a tremendous piece of luck really, because I don’t think Inspector Ghote will now ever die. At least he’ll live as long as I do.’
Prophetic words. The Perfect Murde
r has met with enduring success. Upon publication it won the Crime Writers’ Association’s Gold Dagger in the UK and claimed an Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America. Keating was on his way. And after twenty-five wonderful books and a short story collection, Inspector Ghote has joined the pantheon of great sleuths: Holmes, Poirot, Maigret. In his own way, Ghote has that shimmering of Golden Age stardust about him.
The first Ghote arrived more than half a century ago. The world has changed since then and literary sensibilities have moved with the times. Today, controversies abound under the banner of ‘cultural appropriation’, some justified, others perhaps trumpeted beyond the merits of the case by vested interests. Seasoned literary commentators and social media trolls alike are quick to pronounce judgment on writers they feel have not earned the right to depict a particular lived experience. No doubt they would make much of the fact that H.R.F. Keating, by his own admission, knew very little about India when he began researching these novels. His portrayals of India and Indians might offend some, an example of what they might term post-colonial hubris.
I think this is missing the point. That was a different era, with different dynamics at work. Yes, there will be some who find offence merely in the fact that a middle-aged white man who had never been to India should achieve literary acclaim for novels set in the country. Personally, I believe that writers must have the licence to write that which inspires them. Whilst diversity and cultural authenticity in publishing is something I fervently believe in – for obvious reasons – I will also stand by the right of authors to be authors, that is, to journey on those fantastical oceans of the imagination that make writing such an enjoyable endeavour. For me the key to all such quasi-moral quandaries is whether or not an author has treated his subject matter with respect and empathy. And in his treatment of the subcontinent and its people Keating did more than simply create a series of intriguing crime novels. He brought the India of that time – in all its grit and glory – to the attention of the wider world.
We only have to look at how appreciative Indian readers themselves were of his portrayal.
In a 1981 article for India Today (updated in 2014), Sunil Sethi tells the story of Keating’s third visit to Bombay. He is mildly astonished when a young woman, a fan of his books, approaches him to express her admiration. Keating, Sethi tells us, can’t quite believe the reception he received in India: ‘There you are quietly writing away at your desk, and you produce this little book. Your wife likes it, but she’s an interested party. Your agent approves, but he’s also an interested party. Then you come 5,000 miles from home, and people stop you on street-corners to tell you how much they love reading your books. Isn’t it wonderful?’
Of course, the country has changed dramatically since then. I wonder what Keating would make of this modern India? And what would modern Indians make of him and his work? More importantly, how would Ghote fare? I have a feeling that the inspector, a beacon of decency in a sometimes indecent world, would find himself quite at home as India continues its struggle to undo millennia of entrenched social attitudes: corruption, inequality, nepotism, and the debilitating effects of the caste system.
Ultimately, as a lifelong crime reader and now a relatively seasoned writer in the genre, I believe that there is nothing so likeable in the annals of crime fiction as an honourable detective. And in Ghote we find just such a man, a man for the times in which we live.
Vaseem Khan
London, 2020
ONE
Despite everything, Inspector Ghote found his head filled with pleasantly vague thoughts. Yes, the month of October was not the best time to be footing it here and there about the city. It was almost as hot as full summer, plus the last of the monsoon showers made it sweatily humid. And, yes again, the case he had been given was not very likely to bring him success.
It would have shown more of respect for my abilities, he thought, if instead of this fag-end affair I had been sent, like every other inspector in Crime Branch, to work on the Ajmani murder. To be the one who put the handcuffs on the fellow who in that altogether mysterious manner succeeded to get right inside that double and triple protected house … Altogether feathers in my cap.
But what has been given to me? When you are coming down to it no more than a fellow climbing in to commit a handful of B and E offences, breaking and entering under Indian Penal Code Section 446, Whoever commits ‘house-breaking’ after sunset and before sunrise is said to commit ‘house-breaking by night.’ Very well. Serious enough crimes. But not at all so serious as murder, the crime that nothing can put back.
But Deputy Commissioner Kabir has put this case into my hands now and no one else’s. My responsibility.
He felt it as a heavy weight thrust on to him. And all, he thought, because Pinky Dinkarrao in her Pinky Thinking column that everyone is reading was comparing the climbing thief I am expected to find to Yeshwant, the big ghorpad lizard that in times past carried a rope up rocky crags to capture impregnable forts. And from then on the sunset-to-sunrise fellow was grabbing all the headlines. Until the Ajmani murder put every other thing into shade.
Still, there is one good side to it all. I am on my own. No one here to tell me to do things the way they want them done. True, not much of excitement just only going round where other officers have already been, trying to pin down this fellow, month after month defeating best efforts of local stations. Even now of Crime Branch itself. But in the end there may be something of kudos for whoever is nabbing this Yeshwant. And perhaps it may be myself. Even if so far I have not hit on one new fact. Modus operandi same each time: in through a high window, and out with one first-class haul. And never a single physical clue.
And there is another reason, in the humidity and the heat, to be glad I am neither sitting under the fan in my flat nor within reach of my wife at the end of a telephone. Things at home are not at all peaceful. Trouble is Ved. A young man of his age, even if he is still a student, should be out on his own. But how can anyone, unless they are fully rich, find money for even the smallest of rooms in a city that is boasting its top rents are higher even than those in great Manhattan? So there the boy is, wanting to live his own life, and bumping up at every moment against his mother, living her own life.
There had been that ridiculous business last night. Ved using the TV to play some video he had bought from a pavement vendor, some damn nonsense of Lost in Space, and it coming up to time for Swabhimaan, Protima’s favourite programme. Ved, when she had pointed this out to him a few minutes beforehand, muttering a promise to let her switch over, but then sitting on, glued to those Western imported spacecraft adventures of some Americans called the Robinson family. And, when Protima had reached across and switched over herself, he had shouted, Be for once getting out of my hairs.
And he himself had walked right into it all. There was Protima using her tongue, which he occasionally thought of, in secret, as ‘sharp as a fish knife’ with in his mind’s eye a fishwalli from Sassoon Docks or Mahim Bay gutting pomfret after pomfret with single strokes of her razor-keen blade. And there was Ved blustering almost as loudly. Does she think she is owning me still? I am no more her little baby. And Protima retorting with quieter but more stinging words.
No, better by far to be tramping the fiercely hot streets, going from one rich robbed lady to another, only to be told time and again that they had already answered each and every police question.
He found himself now at the end of the long stretch of the Oval Maidan. Almost without realizing it he came to a halt in the shade of the thick trunk of one of the tall Royal palms fringing the long spread of still-green post-monsoon grass. Half a dozen cricket matches were in progress. He stopped for a moment to watch, switching between games played so close one to another that an alert boy in the outfield of one could catch an overambitious batsman in another, or even in two others.
Or he saw, as he felt the hot throbbing wall of held-up early rush-hour traffic almost singeing his back, there was one fi
elder at least taking no part in either of the games to each side of him. He was a boy of ten or eleven, plainly lost deep in some private dream, eyes raised to the horizon, totally motionless.
Suddenly Ghote remembered an occasion when he himself, at much the same age, had been taking part in an untypically dull game, almost British in the way the batsmen had been cautiously poking at each delivery. Relegated to the deep field, he had fallen into a similar faraway reverie, idly holding out in front of himself the ancient sola topee his mother insisted on him wearing. And then, with a heavy little thump, the ball had landed exactly in that basin-like hat. He had come to, blinking, to shouts of laughter from every other fielder, the two batsmen, even the boy umpiring, and, mortified beyond anything, had run from the scene.
So what he had never been able to ask afterwards was whether that ball had landed in his old topee as the result of a batsman’s stroke – and would that have given him a catch? – or whether some fellow fielder, seeing him in his lost-to-the-world daze, had crept up and tossed the ball in. It was something that, from time to time, he still wondered about.
Behind him, he became aware, breaking into his present reverie, of a loud tapping noise, almost a hammering.
He turned.
A huge tourist coach, Rajah Super Airbus in florid letters of gold all along its red and cream painted side, had been held up in the inching-forward, fumes-belching traffic. Inside it, he could just make out through its heavily tinted glass someone banging on a window with the heel of his hand while at the same time agitating the other arm as violently as if he were a captive being led away to death.
He looked round. There was no one else near him.
Can the fellow be signalling to myself only?
He wondered whether to turn and walk away. What could anyone in a tourist bus, probably full of white firinghis, want with him?