FIR

by Monabi Mitra

  To everyone Bikram said equably that the body had been sent for a post-mortem and they could do nothing without the report, that there were no signs of injury and the police hadn’t quite begun their investigation.

  The phone rang again, this time, mercifully, the land line. A hoarse voice asked in broken English whether he was talking to DSP Vikram Chattopadhyay.

  ‘Speaking,’ said Bikram.

  ‘I am Makhan Mandal, councillor, Ward 65, speaking.’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Bikram, puzzled. Another landlord–tenant case?

  ‘Last night there was a mishap at the residence of Robi Bose in Ballygunge. Mr Bose died of a heart attack, I am told.’

  Another one! What did he want?

  ‘It seems that the officer-in-charge wrongly and rashly ordered a post-mortem.’ Though the man was now speaking in Bengali he used the words ‘wrongly’ and ‘rashly’ in English.

  ‘Many of his relatives have been ringing me up since morning, requesting me to look into the matter and call the post-mortem off. I would like you to do the same.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Discipline your officer-in-charge. Stop the post-mortem. Return the body for cremation.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the … Mr Bose died a natural death. Any fool can see that. He had been very ill with heart trouble. Died of an attack.’

  ‘The doctor doesn’t think so.’

  ‘Which doctor? He’s just a junior fellow running after cheap publicity!’

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t want to anger so many important people for publicity.’

  ‘Ah, so others have also been telling you to stop the PM. Has Toofan called you yet?’

  Bikram could have bitten his tongue off. He should have anticipated Toofan Kumar’s proximity to the politico. ‘I don’t think I can stop anything at this stage. It would look as if the police were trying to hush up things. Besides, the press has picked up the scent now.’

  ‘But the police should hush it up. Why else would we put the officer-in-charge there?’

  ‘I’ve survived for a long time without hushing things up, as you suggest. I don’t see why this should be an exception.’

  ‘If you want to be difficult, I will be nasty too. I suppose you’re aware that, as the local councillor, I can certify that there was no foul play and a post-mortem is not required.’

  This was true. Indian laws and rules are quirky and this was an unusually unreasonable proposition. And all that was required was a letter from the local politician to put Bikram in all sorts of legal tangles.

  Bikram thought quickly. ‘What’ll I tell the press? I’ll have to let them know that you ordered me to stop.’

  ‘Are you threatening me, Mr DSP?’

  ‘You’re challenging me, Mandal babu, to go ahead with the post-mortem against all opposition.’

  ‘Think about what I’m telling you. Someone from the family will meet you in half an hour with the letter.’

  ‘I don’t think it will be possible for me to receive that letter, Mr Mandal. I really don’t think you should concern yourself with this case.’ Taking a leaf out of Toofan Kumar’s book, Bikram cut him off firmly. Then he rang a bell, asked the constable who answered to turn away all remaining visitors, and, summoning Mistry, went out to look for Ghosh.

  Ghosh was on duty at the airport where a senior American bureaucrat was due to arrive from Delhi. A bunch of women from the women’s wing of the Communist Party was preparing to burn an effigy of the US president. The women were jubilant. Traffic had piled up into a higgledy-piggledy mess and they were making a troop of policemen increasingly nervous. The usual flow of events was this: after some slogan-shouting, the women would pick up stones and begin pelting the cops. They would continue throwing stones till they had provoked a reaction, and then complain about human rights violations.

  Ghosh stood at the head of the troop, a glum figure in a uniform a couple of sizes too tight for him. Beside him fidgeted Sheena Sen, a slightly built young woman officer on whom the khaki contrasted with a baby face and coloured hair.

  ‘They’re all so ugly,’ said Sheena Sen chattily. ‘Humph! Why don’t they marry and bring up children and look after their in-laws like other normal girls?’

  Why don’t you, thought Ghosh. He disapproved of working women and hated women cops.

  ‘Or study and get good jobs,’ continued Sheena.

  ‘They have,’ grunted Ghosh.

  ‘Really! You mean they’re all working women?’

  ‘They’re in the business of politics,’ he said caustically.

  ‘Then they’re definitely better paid than me,’ tittered Sheena.

  A wireless that had been crackling off and on sprang to life and emitted a series of screeches. Only a policeman could decipher what the man at the other end said: Charlie Mike’s convoy was sliding away down the river road and was expected to arrive at the office destination shortly.

  ‘Why Charlie Mike?’ asked Sheena rather pointlessly. ‘Why not Caspar Mutton or Calcutta Mumbai or Caring Mother for chief minister?’

  ‘Hush,’ said Ghosh as if worried that the chief minister would somehow hear her remark. ‘It’s the old British code. It is carved in stone.’ Just then the activists grew bored and began looking around for some fun. They charged through the cordon and began by pulling at the sticks of the nearest constables.

  Ghosh shouted, ‘Here it comes. Watch out for the stones. Protect your noses. Forward!’

  When Bikram arrived fifteen minutes later, the battle had subsided and Ghosh was wrapping his handkerchief around a reddish bulge on his arm, cursing all the while. The lines of women had been broken up and put into police vans where they were already shouting slogans. The roads had been given over to the angry traffic which began a bellowing of horns.

  ‘How’s it going?’ shouted Bikram above the din.

  ‘As it always does,’ Ghosh shouted back. ‘They’ll be let off in an hour or two, still yowling away, but who’s going to look after my arm?’

  ‘All sound and fury, signifying nothing?’ asked Bikram, remembering a textbook.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. What’s the matter with your arm? Sprain?’

  Ghosh tested his arm dubiously, then sighed. ‘Nothing much that ice won’t mend. But why are you here? I didn’t see your name in the roster.’

  ‘Can you get out of this now and spare me an hour?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then get in,’ said Bikram, ‘and I’ll brief you on the way.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ said Ghosh when Bikram had filled him in on Robi Bose’s death and the circumstances surrounding it. ‘First the theft, and then this! One of the servants, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s what I hoped too when I heard of it. But nothing is missing, no one was hurt, none of the servants has fled and no one would have thought anything suspicious about the death had it not been for a pesky doctor who refused to sign “Death by cardiovascular failure” on the dotted line.’

  ‘Family, then,’ said Ghosh with an air of certainty. ‘Wife, probably with the aid of a lover.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Bikram. ‘But investigation will be an uphill task, judging from the number of phone calls I’ve already received. In any case, we can’t proceed till the autopsy report comes in.’

  ‘Then we might as well wait till next summer,’ said Ghosh cynically.

  ‘I think they will find something in the post-mortem,’ said Bikram thoughtfully. ‘I suppose it was some kind of poison. After that it will get really bad.’

  ‘Because of TK?’

  Bikram smiled. Ghosh, beneath that potbelly and the crusty temperament, had a quick mind.

  At 3 p.m., a meeting was held in the inspector general’s room. Inspector General Prem Gupta was a quiet man in spectacles with a soft voice and a benign temperament. On weekdays, he arrived in office by 9.30 a.m. and immersed himself in work, diligently clearing files, meeting visitors and attending to police wor
k. On Saturdays and Sundays, he supervised the flowers in his garden, logged on to various gardening websites, exchanged notes with other gardening enthusiasts and settled down with the gardening book of the week with as much ardour as he had reviewed the crime situation in office.

  Prem liked Bikram. He disliked Toofan Kumar but took care not to show it so that service camaraderie and hierarchy were maintained. He trod a careful tightrope when all three came together for work and defused explosive situations with a nod and a word. They sat down in his room over cups of steaming coffee. This was the gentlemanly touch Prem used to lighten the depressing burden of policing.

  ‘Good work on the child-lifting case,’ he began. ‘Have you got anything out of the man?’

  ‘He’s pretending insanity, Sir,’ said Toofan. ‘Sometimes he says he kidnapped five or six, all those reported missing from the Station area, and the next minute he clams up.’

  ‘Do you think he could really be a bit off in his head?’ Prem asked.

  ‘Look at his modus operandi: tucking a nine-month-old under his lungi! How did he ever think he’d get away with it?’

  ‘We’ve put an extra guard outside his cell,’ said Toofan. ‘Just in case he is a little insane. What we’ve also done is lock up another guy with the man. He’ll pump the child-lifter for info and keep an eye on him as well. I’m hoping he’ll lead us to the other gangs.’ They discussed the child-lifting and how it could just provide them with a badly needed break.

  ‘We need to put CCTVs in all our cells,’ said Prem Gupta. ‘Think of the enormous amount of money wasted each year without fulfilling this basic need.’

  ‘No planning,’ said Toofan deprecatingly. ‘No funds and no planning. These IAS guys will finish us altogether.’

  ‘Perhaps we need to be more active too, Toofan,’ said Prem Gupta mildly. He then turned to Bikram. ‘Bad luck over Babul. What went wrong?’

  ‘Same as always, Sir. Someone tipped them off.’

  ‘You lost a good informer, I hear, but you’ve got someone new called Raja, I believe.’

  ‘I have. That’s what’s worrying me. Was he left behind on purpose to throw us off the scent or was Babul too frightened to care? I can’t quite make out.’

  ‘Is he still in hospital?’

  ‘We’re keeping him there till we figure out under which section to book him.’

  ‘Never knew criminals were scared of leech bites,’ said Toofan Kumar. ‘Never knew leech bites could rob us of a prize catch. The whole thing was mishandled. Someone from the house shot at one of our men. Suppose they had shot back and someone had got killed? Imagine the newspapers next morning!’ Toofan Kumar’s voice implied that the raid had been deliberately sabotaged and events were being neatly manipulated to ruin his, Toofan’s, reputation.

  There was a moment’s silence. Prem Gupta began his tightrope act. ‘We have to look into this fake currency,’ he said to deflect the conversation. ‘Too much of it is flooding the market. At this rate it’ll get out of hand. Any ideas, Toofan?’

  Toofan Kumar ventured some suggestions. Then they discussed a few other desultory cases ranging from illicit liquor to gambling rackets in residential areas.

  The morning’s newspapers were lying face down on the table. Prem Gupta pushed them aside to put down his cup and then casually asked about the Robi Bose case. ‘I see the television channels are very happy this morning.’

  ‘Ask Bikram. He’s the one who began it.’ Toofan Kumar’s fleshy face quivered in anger.

  ‘It couldn’t be helped, Sir. I had to do it.’

  Bikram briefly related the night’s happenings and Sudip Pyne’s refusal to sign the death certificate. He also described the last occasion of his visit to the Bose residence and the theft of money.

  ‘They could be connected, the theft and the sudden death,’ said Prem Gupta reflectively.

  ‘But the death wasn’t sudden. I knew the man,’ said Toofan. ‘He had suffered a stroke five years ago and this was the second one, Sir. Something’s wrong with the doctor. Bikram should have known how to deal with him.’

  ‘Draft a letter to the director of the forensic science lab, Toofan. Tell them to hurry up with the report. Two weeks at the most. Tell him that the press is on to us and that we need to find out soon what happened.’

  ‘Nothing has happened, Sir. Except publicity for some people,’ said Toofan Kumar darkly.

  Prem Gupta ignored this. ‘I’ll speak to the director also; he’s a good friend of mine.’

  ‘They’ve got hundreds of cases piled up. It’ll take them years to clear the backlog, let alone do this one. We’ll give it a try, nevertheless,’ said Toofan, remembering all at once that it was Prem who wanted a verdict.

  ‘I suppose that’s it, then.’

  Bikram rose and saluted. Toofan Kumar waited for him to leave. He had decided to have a private chat with Prem Gupta and tell him exactly what he thought of Bikram and his meddlesome ways. Toofan had long waited for a chance to tar Bikram and this was the perfect time.

  Prem Gupta plied Toofan with some more coffee, excused himself and went into the bathroom. There, he made a call to Bikram. ‘Hang around somewhere. I want to have a word with you after Toofan leaves.’

  Bikram smiled, took the lift to the third floor, slipped into a colleague’s room and waited.

  ‘What do you make of it, Bikram?’

  ‘Something is wrong there, Sir. I wouldn’t have gone ahead if there wasn’t.’

  ‘I know. I have great respect for your judgement. Had it been someone else I would have heeded Toofan but, well, you know I trust you completely.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir. I’ll try not to let you down.’

  ‘Do you think the doctor is overreacting?’

  ‘No. I’ve worked with him once before. He’s genuine. Also, he’s very good at his work. Ambitious, but has a conscience. If he feels there was some hanky-panky, I’m inclined to believe him.’

  ‘But the report may take years.’ Prem Gupta hesitated. ‘Perhaps you should start making some discreet inquiries.’

  ‘I was hoping that’s what you’d say.’

  ‘Robi Bose.’ Prem Gupta looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve met him of course. At parties and so on. He has a very beautiful wife. Quite a tragedy for her.’

  ‘Beautiful and shrewd, Sir. Perhaps she has been set free by this death.’

  ‘You know her?’ Prem Gupta looked at Bikram closely. One of the reasons he liked Bikram was that he was so full of surprises.

  ‘My … one of my friends took me along to a party to which the Boses had also been invited.’

  ‘Did you like them?’

  ‘I was worried about them. The husband was so dependent on his wife, it was pathetic. And the wife, she is a wild one.’

  ‘Well, let’s see what happens. I’ll try and speed up the postmortem. Toofan will be writing the letter, of course.’

  The telephone rang. Bikram got up to go and saluted again. Prem Gupta picked up the receiver and absent-mindedly followed Bikram’s lean figure out of the door. Then he sighed again. This one was going to be difficult.

  7

  At headquarters the next day, the Robi Bose investigation was pushed on to the back-burner. A number of fake-currency cases had mushroomed and the racket was threatening to get out of hand. At the same time, Angel Nursing Home declared Raja to be fit and healthy and ready to leave for jail.

  Two constables escorted Raja to the district court and were immediately swamped by a crowd of hungry court clerks. A fan ground wretchedly on the ceiling and the floor was littered with cigarette butts and crumpled bus tickets. Men and women in high-necked white shirts and black jackets busily strode up and down, holding files and pens while a medley of law-breakers, their friends, their relatives, police constables, canteen boys carrying cups of tea and a host of busy bodies filled the rooms in bazaar-like camaraderie. A sleepy judge scratched inside his collar, mopped his brow and listened half-heartedly, looking at the clock all the while. Ra
ja shuffled his feet, commented on the heat and idly followed the progress of a lizard that cautiously shifted from one end of the wall to the other, till a clerk thrust a couple of papers at him and asked him to sign them. Bail had been arranged and he was free.

  Two hours later, Raja entered the Tollygunge police station with a jaunty step. His body was cleansed and glowing with bottles of fresh blood and multivitamin tablets. The diet in the nursing home had been wholesome, with no booze or flesh to taint him. He felt healed and invigorated. Babul would think that he was trapped and no one would suspect that he had turned informer for the police. Nothing could go wrong anymore.

  Ghosh was waiting at the thana for Raja. Siddique Ali’s death and the abortive raid still rankled and he decided to lose no time in finding information. The officer-in-charge had been called to headquarters and Ghosh wanted to use his room for the questioning because the swivel chair was comfortable and the tea and snacks wholesome.

  Raja entered the room and hesitated, wondering where to sit, then decided to gauge Ghosh’s response by sitting on the floor. Ghosh frowned and waved him to a wooden bench in a corner. Since this indicated a change in status—from thief to informer—Raja got up with a smile and stood for a moment with folded hands, then dived for Ghosh’s feet.

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Ghosh crossly. ‘Now don’t waste my time. Tell me what you do.’

  ‘Everything cross-border, Sir, everything you want. I do girls, fake currency, cattle, motorcycles, cell phones. You can trust me, Sir, I’ll give you good tip-offs. Hundred per cent success, no hanky-panky with my info, Sir, for you and that other sir, the one who came to see me in hospital, if you could put me in touch with him. His phone number, perhaps …’ Raja paused slyly.