The Dead Don't Confess

by Monabi Mitra

  They had moved to one side of the portico which was now in hectic preparation for the office to shut for the day. Car doors slammed, gears screeched and beacons flashed as police bigwigs raced home or to their clubs and parties.

  ‘And I want to know why I have been assigned the movie crowd to investigate. What is Sheena here for then?’ said Ghosh dourly.

  ‘The law of opposites,’ grinned Bikram. ‘Will you be going to the farmhouse tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll go now,’ said Ghosh suddenly.

  ‘So late? It’ll take you an hour and a half to get there!’ Bikram stared at Ghosh and something stirred in his mind. ‘Is everything all right?’ he faltered. ‘I mean . . . at home?’

  Ghosh looked away and said, yes, but his voice was gruff and he bit his lips in vexation. Bikram waited a moment but sensed that whatever it was, Ghosh was keeping it to himself, at least for now. He got into his car and waved a goodbye at Ghosh who was staring ahead with unseeing eyes and did not even remember to salute. Money trouble, Bikram decided. He remembered Ghosh’s shrill, carping wife and wondered about her unending demands. Perhaps Shona and I too will become like that one day, he thought. Feeling tired and discouraged, he fell asleep in the car.

  * * *

  By the time Ghosh reached home it was ten o’clock, which was decidedly early by his standards. He had not really intended to go calling on Malavika that evening, and yet he dreaded the alternative of going home. He hated home nowadays. It had always been this cheerless, stifling sort of a place but now, with Asha’s misdemeanours and her mother’s ogre-like growls, it had become a terror cell. Still, it had a bed and a file of Disprin, and there was a bottle of rum mouldering away in a cupboard. There had once been a time when Mrs Ghosh and he had sat down on the balcony, she with a rum-and-cola and he with rum and ice. Thinking wistfully of transient pleasures, Ghosh wheezed up the last of the stairs and clawed at the doorbell.

  Asha was sulking in her room and Mrs Ghosh was watching television. Neither seemed pleased to see him. The house seemed to tremble at every fresh blast of the background score as the wicked heroine squabbled with her mother-in-law. Ghosh sat on a chair and waited for the pounding in his chest to subside. Feeling uneasy, he went to the bathroom, stood under the hot- water shower for half a minute, wrapped a towel around his waist and flung himself on the bed. It seemed impossible to lie down and the constriction in his chest got worse. He wondered briefly whether he was having a heart attack. Will serve them right, he thought. Mentally decorating the house for his funeral and watching Mrs Ghosh wobblingly wipe the vermilion from her forehead, he dragged himself to the balcony and heaved himself into a chair. A plaintive smell of chatim blossoms wafted from a tree branch that hung over the parapet and it piercingly brought back memories of boyhood in his suburban home. Feeling somewhat soothed, Ghosh shut his eyes and let the fragrance wash over him.

  11

  ‘The police . . . universally lack modern equipment; their handicap is as severe as it is obvious.’

  Virendra Singh was a bachelor determined to stay that way. From being a lowly student in a small town, he was now a surefooted policeman in a big city. Accordingly, Virendra Singh threw himself into a zestful and lustful lifestyle, combining golf and girls, policing and parties, crime and club nights. Though his mother sent his profile under a pseudonym to Shaadi.com and his sister raked her list of acquaintances of the super rich for a suitable catch, Virendra Singh had savoured bachelor bliss for so long that it seemed nothing but folly to marry a priggish girl for a fat dowry and thus forfeit his tantalizing status. Which is why he hummed a few bars of Bachelor Boy under his breath and entered his office with a spring in his step the morning after the briefing, shining and well groomed—even after the exertions of the night.

  Visitors’ slips fluttered playfully on his table under the draughts of the AC. Virendra Singh glanced through them and made a quick selection. Rohan Agrawal, Shweta Sur and Mrs D. Khusroo: these sounded promising. The names had a musical lilt that reminded him of clubs and parties and lets-have-dinner- how-about-the-new-Frontier-restaurant-at-the-Taj and was irresistible. Anita Dutt and Mr and Mrs Debjoy Bhowmick from Siliguri did not. Soma Haldar of Natungram, Howrah, sounded positively repulsive. Accordingly, Virendra Singh matched name to personality and social hierarchy through an inbuilt reckoning system that had been honed over the years to a fine art, and let in Mrs D. Khusroo first. Anita Dutt was banished to Bikram.

  Bikram was on the phone with Ashu Das, trying to make peace.

  ‘How is it with you, Ashu?’ His voice was warm and velvety.

  Ashu Das sniffed. ‘As well as you can imagine. Is it true that you bailed Ghosh out by arranging to have me sent out to that village in Bihar for a raid on bank robbers?’

  ‘Yes, it is, in a way. Perhaps you should know that I also suggested to the inspector general that the raid be dropped and you be brought back here.’ Bikram delivered his lines smoothly enough for what was a monstrous lie.

  Ashu Das debated whether it would be worthwhile to cross swords with someone who was the darling of the IG and thought better of it.

  ‘OK, so I’m back. What do you want now?’

  ‘Your help.’

  ‘Why? You’re a seasoned investigator. What’s happening this time?’

  ‘Too much to do, too few to aid us. I need adroit and qualified hands.’ Bikram added hopefully, ‘Please.’

  Ashu Das was appeased but pretended to be tepid. ‘Where do I come in?’

  ‘You have to help us track down Murari Koyal. Remember what Monica Sarkar told you when you interviewed her—“ask Murari Koyal” or something dramatic like that. We’ve got an address but it has turned out to be a dud, the man doesn’t live there any more. Perhaps you could take some time out . . .’

  ‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ said Ashu Das uncomfortably, not wanting to help Bikram and yet not wanting to anger the inspector general. He was sure the two were on some private hotline every day, discussing files and transfers and building up or ruining careers according to expedience.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ said Bikram warmly.

  ‘I haven’t done anything yet,’ said Ashu Das humourlessly.

  ‘But I know you will, and successfully too,’ said Bikram flatteringly.

  After this joyless telephone call, which jangled badly on his nerves and his ingrained snobbishness, Bikram sat fiddling with a fountain pen, thoughtfully drawing stars on his memo pad when the constable announced Anita Dutt, sent by DIG saab. The door opened wider and a woman came in.

  ‘. . . the third time I’ve been moved from room to room,’ she was saying pettishly. ‘I first tried to meet the DIG but he sent me here. Before all this I had been to the police station but they scribbled down something hurriedly and were glad to get rid of me. Is this what police-public relations are all about?’ She spoke in a thin falsetto which contrasted oddly with her lumpy appearance.

  ‘Tell me what it’s about,’ said Bikram calmly. He remembered catching a glimpse of the woman sitting in the visitors’ room forty-five minutes ago and guessed she had been waiting for Virendra Singh for about an hour. He wished he could tell her that she was lucky to be attended to so early. Sometimes Virendra Singh kept visitors waiting for nearly two hours if they happened to walk into the Crime Branch office without references.

  ‘My investment company,’ said the woman in a softened tone. There was an air of strangeness, of remoteness, about Bikram that usually quietened harsh complainants and fidgeting witnesses. ‘It’s . . . you’ll never imagine how they’ve cheated me. I’ve brought the written complaint which I had submitted to the thana. Take a look.’

  The complaint had originally been written out on lined letter- writing paper and a photocopy had been made which, judging from its crumpled and dog-eared look, had been relentlessly passed from one impatient hand to another.

  This is my humble plea that I, Anita Dutt, a defenceless and innocent victim of an unscrupulous investment company named Ga
neshaa Investment Company and its senseless machinations, have been cheated in the following matter . . . deposited cash of twenty-five thousand due to mature in six months . . . after maturity period given a cheque for fifty thousand rupees . . . cheque dishonoured by Kolkata Bank . . . agent who approached me by the name of Dinesh Kedia furnished false addresses . . .

  Bikram read it through and put the photocopied sheets aside.

  ‘How did you get to know about Ganeshaa Investment?’

  ‘Through friends. Someone saw an advertisement in the paper and passed it on to a friend who told someone else and so on. We thought it would be safe and quick, so we all decided to go for it. Incidentally, all my friends have had cheques which bounced. We went to our respective police stations but only some of us could put in our complaints and the unlucky ones could not.’

  ‘How many of you?’

  ‘Five.’ The woman drew out another sheet of paper and read out some names, which Bikram pretended to listen to politely before he rang up the Tollygunge police station.

  ‘Have you registered a complaint filed by Anita Dutt against a dud investment company called Ganeshaa Investment Company and an agent called Dinesh Kedia?’

  The officer at the other end sighed miserably.

  ‘I knew she would go to you, sir, she was threatening us all along that she would. Yes, we did, under sections 406, 420 as well as 120B. Usual kind of fraud. We were tied up all these days and couldn’t do much about it, but I’ve sent a sub-inspector this morning to the Kedia house. Unfortunately, the bird has flown the coop. The sub-inspector has got some documents which he’s bringing along. Should I send them to you?’ The thana officer waited hopefully.

  Bikram energetically deflected the responsibility. ‘No no, you work on it for the time being.’ On a mischievous inspiration, he added, ‘You can send in a report to Ashu Das.’

  After he had sent away Anita Dutt, who trilled and twittered for a full five minutes more, he stretched and walked over to the window and stared out absently. It had been ten days since the malaria fever but it had left him feeling bloodless and woolly. He had joined work—too soon perhaps—because his mind had felt sluggish and weary at home. But his body had not had time to recover its strength. His spirit had always been willing, perhaps too much so, but now, well into his thirties, the flesh was perceptibly weaker. And what was home anyway? Empty rooms and closed spaces where he had only himself for company. He thought idly of all the rooms he had seen in the past week and wondered whether it was the lack of a proper family, with companionship and a spouse and children in these houses that caused the feeling of emptiness. But Ghosh had a wife and child, and yet, there was sometimes the feeling of real sorrow behind that tireless facade.

  The door opened and someone puffed and stamped into the room. Bikram, who knew that step well, did not look around. After a moment he sat in his chair and spoke, staring at Ghosh.

  ‘Did you really check up on Mala so late last night?’ he asked, wondering whether it was because of the visit that he looked fatigued.

  ‘No,’ said Ghosh curtly.

  Through narrowed eyes Bikram could see that Ghosh’s eyes were red-rimmed and his hair, usually plastered down with oil, was standing on end. He had manoeuvred himself into a chair and was now staring moodily at the file tray. Bikram started to say something and then stopped. For a while there was silence.

  ‘Another swindler in town,’ said Bikram. ‘Complaint filed at Tollygunge police station.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ghosh disinterestedly.

  ‘I told Ashu Das to check up on the mysterious Murari. For all his faults he’s a plodder and might turn up something.’

  ‘Great,’ said Ghosh dejectedly.

  More silence. The air-conditioner wheezed to life and flung some cold air into the room before dying away wretchedly again.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’ asked Bikram in his kindest tone. ‘. . . At home?’ he added gently.

  Ghosh seemed to be wrestling for a moment with the dispassionate laws of workplace ethics and the needs of the soul. Finally he gave in and began in a cracked voice, ‘Do you remember my daughter, Asha? You got her tickets for a pop-music concert once and we went to your flat to pick it up. She was fourteen then.’

  Bikram nodded, vaguely remembering a chubby girl wearing a voluminous skirt who had stared adoringly at him.

  ‘It’s not that I haven’t given her time,’ Ghosh continued defensively. ‘On weekends, or whenever I was free, I helped her out with her maths homework. Or maybe a little bit of physics. Whatever I could manage. So just imagine my surprise when the wife storms into my room ten days ago, when I’m trying to write out a report on the Bihar raid, and throws down a letter she found in Asha’s schoolbag. A love letter. From her science tutor! He’s twenty-one, by the way.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Bikram asked as evenly as he could, though it took much effort to restrain a smile. He could picture the slanging and shouting in the Ghosh flat, with its Ganesha sticker beside the doorbell and the faux cuckoo clock that played Beethoven every hour.

  ‘She wanted me to arrest him and it took me a long time to explain that it can’t be done. I waited for him the next day and gave him a warning and packed him off but my wife suspects that Asha is completely besotted. So, while my daughter refuses to eat and lies on the bed with a pillow over her face, crying, her marks go down, down, down and Mrs Ghosh’s temper goes up, up and up.’

  ‘Have you talked it over with the boy’s family?’

  Ghosh shook his head. ‘No point. You have to be careful, being a cop. Can’t go around shooting arrows at all and sundry. I think the boy got the message and shied off. What’s troublesome is Asha’s reaction.’ Ghosh frowned. ‘Just wait till she’s eighteen. I’ll get her married off fast enough.’

  ‘If you think my talking to her can help, I’m always there.’

  Ghosh looked up gratefully. ‘Would you? She thinks the world of you. Whenever we did something together she would prattle on about you and wanted every detail. She thinks you’re iconic, like some screen idol. Maybe I’ll persuade her to meet you one day . . .’

  ‘Give it some time. It will pass,’ said Bikram.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Looking relieved, Ghosh smiled. ‘It was good talking to you. I don’t have any friends to confide in and this can’t be discussed with relatives.’

  Wondering what he had let himself into, Bikram smiled too. ‘Of course, I don’t have any friends either, except you and . . . one or two others. Sometimes I think that policemen are the planet’s loneliest creatures.’

  * * *

  Sheena Sen was sitting inside a room at the Salt Lake East police station, looking brightly at Chand Mukherjee, husband of Leena Mukherjee, age fifty, an Eastern Railway employee. This was what she had gathered from the pink Piloo Adhikary file which now looked bedraggled enough to indicate a case well investigated. The man who squirmed before her was wearing a full-sleeve white shirt and smelled horribly of sweat. Beyond the odour of sweat were traces of a cheap musky perfume. Common, thought Sheena, and yet his salt-and-pepper hair, matched by a salt-and-pepper goatee, gave him a look that was both sinister and randy. Sheena Sen tried hard to blink away visions of Chand Mukherjee waggling his goatee at Monica Sarkar in bed.

  Outside, the courtyard of the police station was in the throes of a lunatic assault. A madman who imagined himself to be a traffic policeman stood in the sun wearing a soiled pair of underpants and directing non-existent traffic with a tree branch. Tea boys, drivers, constables, complainants, criminals and courtroom fixers dodged the madman and went serenely about their business; only a real traffic constable who had come in to use the thana loo eyed the madman disgustedly before going back to his booth.

  ‘How long was Monica Sarkar at your house that day?’

  ‘Which day?’

  ‘Kali puja day.’

  ‘From five-thirty till ten-thirty.’

  ‘Who invited her?’

&nbs
p; ‘We all did. Both my wife and I.’

  ‘Are you sure? From what we gather your wife would have been the last person to invite Monica Sarkar to a cosy little gathering at your flat.’

  The man glared at Sheena Sen.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’ve been making enquiries. Monica and you were more than friends.’

  ‘How dare you! Who’s been saying all this?’

  ‘I’m in the mood to ask questions, not answer them.’ Sheena Sen tossed her head and raised her left eyebrow. Her manner was so much of a contrast to her pretty schoolgirlish appearance that Chand Mukherjee, like others before him, was struck dumb for a minute as Sheena answered her cell phone.

  ‘In any case,’ pursued Sheena after slipping the instrument into a pocket above a well-rounded bosom, ‘yours was a shoddy scheme. Nip out, run down to the Adhikary house, creep up from behind after letting yourself in with a duplicate key your lover had given you, gag him, push in the injection, see him keel over, run out, face the dogs, shoot them and return home. Where have you hidden the gun?’

  ‘I was at home all evening. So unless you prove I had a twin in true Hindi movie style, this will be impossible.’

  Sheena Sen shook her head and smiled archly.

  ‘Won’t do, Mr Mukherjee. Someone did see you leave the house and disappear for an hour. Between eight and nine, to be more exact. How would you explain that?’

  Chand Mukherjee’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed twice, and though he frowned, his hands shook a little. ‘Rubbish!’ he shouted. ‘I didn’t go out at all! I went out only to buy cigarettes.’

  ‘For an hour?’

  ‘I had to buy sweets first for the puja and then hunt out a paan shop for the cigarettes.’

  ‘For an hour?’

  ‘Well, I put down the box of sweets in the paan shop and it got lost and I had to go back and buy more sweets.’

  ‘Why didn’t you take your car?’