by Vaseem Khan
“I’m trying not to,” he said. “But—”
“But the weight of the world somehow keeps landing on your shoulders.” Poppy smiled ruefully. “And here was I thinking after retirement I would see more of you, not less!”
Chopra hesitated. He wanted to tell Poppy that he missed her, that he wished his life—both their lives—were not so busy. But there was that nagging sense of responsibility that had always been his greatest asset and his greatest curse. “I could always close the detective agency,” he mumbled.
Poppy stared at him, then tipped back her head to unleash a gale of tinkling laughter. “You said that as if someone had told you to shave your moustache.” She leaned forward and hugged him. “In all these years I have never asked you to be anyone other than yourself. And I never will. Just remember, I need you too. If the only way to spend time with you is to engage your services as a detective, then so be it. I shall have to find a suitable mystery for you to solve.”
Chopra smiled. “How about the mysterious case of how to convince Irfan to accept your efforts to educate him?”
Poppy smiled. “I know you don’t think I should push him, but it’s for his own good.”
“I wonder if he knows that? He’s got along fine without it so far. It’s going to take a lot for him to change his mind.”
“Well, I’m responsible for him now,” said Poppy firmly. “And it just so happens that I’m very good at changing people’s minds.”
“Okay, okay. I surrender!” Chopra grinned. “Perhaps an easier problem for me to solve might be the mystery of the overspiced curry.”
Poppy frowned. “You know, I thought it was a little hot today. It must be that jar of pickle you brought home with you.”
Chopra looked at her in alarm. “You added that to the curry?”
“Shouldn’t I have?”
Chopra paled. “Didn’t you tell me Malhotra has a delicate constitution? I hope the poor man knows a good doctor. Either that or a priest.”
THE RANSOM LETTER
At eleven o’clock the following morning, and for the second time in two days, Chopra parked the Tata van in front of the Antakshari Tower in Malabar Hill.
The lawyer Lal was waiting for him, pacing the courtyard beyond the gates in agitation. With his dark suit and grey widow’s peak he looked like an impatient vampire awaiting his next victim.
Chopra let Ganesha out of the van, then followed Lal as he briskly led him up to the Verma apartment. The summons had been urgent, but once again the lawyer had remained infuriatingly tight-lipped.
They found Bijli Verma in Vicky’s room, slumped in a cane rocking chair, staring at a poster of eighties starlet Rekha in her most famous role as Umrao Jaan, the luckless courtesan with the heart of gold.
Chopra waited as the chair creaked back and forth in the silence.
“You know, he only keeps that poster up to annoy me,” said Bijli eventually. “Everyone knows Rekha and I were bitter rivals.”
Chopra had indeed heard this, but forbore to comment.
Finally, Bijli pushed herself up from the chair and faced him.
He was momentarily taken aback. He saw that something had happened, something that had shaken the resolute woman. A tremor moved over her cheeks as she held out a letter.
He took it, his dark eyes quickly scanning the lines of aggressive text:
WE HAVE YOUR SON. IF YOU WANT TO SEE HIM ALIVE AGAIN, DO NOT CONTACT THE POLICE. WE WANT TWO CRORES, IN CASH. GET THE MONEY BY THIS EVENING. WE WILL BE IN TOUCH. DO NOT TRY TO BE CLEVER OR WE WILL SEND HIM BACK TO YOU IN PIECES.
THE PEOPLE’S JUDGE
Two crores! Twenty million rupees!
Chopra removed a bundle from his pocket—the threatening notes sent to Vicky over the past months. Comparing the handwriting, he saw that it was identical.
A photograph accompanied the letter.
It showed Vicky Verma slumped in a chair, holding up a copy of the Times of India. The date on the Times was today’s. But what arrested Chopra was Vicky’s face. It was obvious the young actor had been beaten: the right side of his face was swollen, the eye purpled and half closed. His lower lip, too, had swelled grotesquely, and a bruise was visible high on the left side of his forehead. Yet it was the eyes that shocked Chopra the most. A light seemed to have gone out of them—this wasn’t the Vicky Verma he had seen cavorting onstage just days ago, confident, cool, and arrogant. This was Vicky stripped of all hubris, returned to the level of his fellow countrymen where bad things befell ordinary people, and being rich and famous was no protection against the iniquities of fate.
For the first time Chopra saw the real Vicky Verma: a boy, Bijli Verma’s boy, no different to any other mother’s son in the city of Mumbai. He felt a renewed strengthening of his resolve and vowed to himself that he would do everything in his power to return Vicky to his mother unharmed, or as unharmed as his captors permitted him to remain. For Chopra finally had to acknowledge that Vicky really had been kidnapped.
This was no stunt.
“How did you receive this letter?”
“It arrived by courier this morning,” replied Lal.
“Did you contact the courier?”
“If you mean to find out who sent it, then yes. But it was a dead end. The letter was handed in to their office, and paid for in cash. They are very busy. All they can recall is a man in leather and a motorcycle helmet. Useless.”
“How do they know it was a man?”
Lal frowned, but forbore from comment.
Chopra considered the letter again, his thoughts returning to his discussion with Cyrus Dinshaw the previous evening. On the face of it, the ransom letter did not tally with the hypothesis that Vicky had been abducted in order to derail the movie for an insurance claim. The sum was too paltry for any organised-crime outfit worth its salt, and the letter indicated at least a possibility Vicky would be returned.
But then again, perhaps this was all part of the scam.
Insurance companies were notoriously difficult. Perhaps Das’s criminal financiers had orchestrated this elaborate charade to ensure that the kidnapping would be taken seriously.
Chopra knew from personal experience that it did not pay to underestimate the ingenuity of Mumbai’s criminal overlords.
“What do you intend to do?” he asked eventually.
“Many years ago a famous producer tried to strong-arm me,” said Bijli, staring into space as she became lost in the past. “He wanted me to do a movie which I had no interest in doing. This was at the height of my fame, you understand, and I was under contract to his studio. When he realised that this made no difference to me he tried another way. He said that if I didn’t do the movie he would go public with the details of an affair I had been having with a very famous and respected actor. A married man with children. I had no fear for myself but I was in love with this man. I did not wish him any harm. But this producer wouldn’t leave me alone. Finally, I had to take the matter in hand.
“One evening, I went to his apartment. I seduced him, even though it disgusted me to do so. And then, when he was sleeping, I tied him up and poured kerosene on him. When he awoke, in his sodden bedsheets, he saw me sitting at the bottom of the bed holding a lighter and smoking a cigarette. He screamed himself hoarse pleading for his life. In the end he agreed to release me from my contract. I don’t think he ever told anyone about that night. I believe he genuinely thought I was insane.”
Chopra observed her face, the lines around the beautiful mouth, the shadows clouding her eyes, mesmerising still. He wondered if Bijli Verma had ever been able to separate herself from the legend of Bijli Verma. He wondered if the legend made demands upon the Bijli that was a mere mortal, demands that occasionally led her out beyond the realms of sanity.
“I don’t like bullies, Chopra,” she continued, holding his gaze.
“Are you saying that you don’t intend to pay?”
She drew in her chin. “No. I will pay. This situation is different. They
have discovered my Achilles heel. I would do anything for my son. He is my sole purpose for existing. I know that he has a reputation as a troublemaker, but he is my son nonetheless. He is all I have.”
“This is now a matter of life and death. I strongly advise you to bring in the authorities.”
“No!” Bijli’s eyes blazed. “The kidnappers have been clear. I cannot take the risk. And neither will you.”
“As you wish. Can you raise the money?”
“It will be done,” replied Lal.
“They will contact you at some point,” continued Chopra. “To inform you of the details of the exchange. If they phone you, you must ask for proof of life. You must speak to Vicky directly and assure yourselves that he is alive. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Bijli.
“We wish you to deliver the ransom,” announced Lal.
Chopra hesitated. He had already realised that was why he was here. It was the only logical course of action. And yet the thought of becoming involved filled him with concern.
In his thirty years on the force he had dealt with only a handful of kidnappings, mostly low-key affairs. A boyfriend had kidnapped his former girlfriend after her parents had married her off to someone else. A father had kidnapped his son after his wife had divorced him. His last such case, the kidnapping of a widely disliked luxury car importer, had seen the family—for reasons of their own—refuse the ransom. In a bid to force their hand the kidnappers had tied the old man to the railway tracks at Kalyan Junction. The poor wretch had suffered a very messy end when, for the first time in living memory, the 09:15 to Khopoli had arrived on time.
“Very well,” said Chopra. “I will help in any way that I can.”
“How could this happen?” asked Bijli. “Who could have done this?”
“I’m not sure,” said Chopra, unwilling to speculate at this stage on the possible Das connection. Yet he felt Bijli needed something, something to cling on to in the sea of murk. “Greta, Vicky’s PA, says that she saw a strange man outside Vicky’s changing room just before he vanished. A middle-aged Muslim man with a distinctive beard.”
Bijli’s eyes sharpened. “You think this has a link to my past? That fanatic who made threats after I spoke out against the terror attacks in 2008?”
Before Chopra could reply, the door swung back and a tall young man burst into the room.
Chopra had seen the boy before, but couldn’t place him immediately. And then he had it: Robin Mistry. The youth was an actor, a contemporary of Vicky Vermas. Indeed, if memory served him correctly, the pair had appeared together in a number of pictures.
The boy was good-looking with a head of shaggy brown hair streaked with blond stripes, and the V-shaped physique that most Bollywood actors sported these days—the age of cheerfully pudgy leading men had been consigned to the past by the influence of Hollywood.
“Aunty Bijli,” gasped the youth. “I came as soon as I could.”
Chopra glanced at Bijli.
She blinked, then said, “This is Chopra, Robin. He is helping us to resolve the situation.”
“But what do they want? These kidnappers? Surely, they can’t mean to harm Vicky?” Mistry looked aghast.
“I take it that you have been apprised of the facts,” said Chopra, his brows knitting together in consternation.
“Robin is Vicky’s childhood friend,” said Bijli defensively. “They have practically grown up together. He was the first person I called when I discovered Vicky hadn’t come home yesterday. He agreed with me that something had to be wrong. If Vicky had been anywhere else, Robin would have known.”
“The more people that know about this the greater the possibility it will come out and endanger Vicky.”
“I can keep a secret,” bristled Mistry.
Chopra turned back to Bijli. “Until they contact you there is nothing we can do but wait. In the meantime I will continue my investigation.”
He turned and left.
Mistry caught up with Chopra as he was ushering a reluctant Ganesha back into the van. The little elephant had been enjoying the views of the Back Bay. A gentle breeze had leavened the afternoon heat, and the smell of jacaranda blossoms arose from the slopes that fell away below their feet.
“I can help,” said Mistry, planting himself in front of Chopra.
“No, thank you.”
“I know Vicky better than anyone,” he persisted.
Chopra evaluated the young man. “Vicky has been receiving threatening letters for the past few months. To me they seem very personal. Is there anyone you can think of that Vicky has upset in this way?”
Mistry crunched his handsome forehead. “Vicky isn’t the most tactful guy, I’ll admit. There are a few discarded girlfriends who’d love to get their claws into him. One—some bit-part actress—actually threatened to have him shot by her brothers when he dumped her last year. Apparently they’re a real gang of ruffians. She has one of those one-name stage names—Apoorna, I think.”
Chopra nodded. This might prove to be an intriguing new lead. “Thank you.”
“Does this mean I can help you look for Vicky?”
“If I need you, I will call you,” said Chopra, ducking into the van. As he drove away, in the rear-view mirror he saw Mistry staring after him, hands on hips, anger snarling his handsome features.
A VITAL CLUE
The hot-dog vendor had moved on.
As Chopra threaded his way through the bustling crowd towards the entrance to the Andheri Sports Stadium, Ganesha bundling along behind him, he found himself dwelling on the ransom note, and the motives of the kidnappers.
If, for one moment, Chopra put aside the possibility that P. K. Das was behind the abduction, then the tone of the letters indicated a genuine hatred of Vicky Verma.
What had the boy done to offend a potential kidnapper?
Robin Mistry had suggested that a former girlfriend may have held a grudge, had even threatened him. But, since leaving Bijli Verma’s home, Chopra had called Babu Wadekar, Vicky’s agent, and made enquiries. The upshot was that this Apoorna—whose real name was Jyoti Gupta—had moved out of the state months ago to pursue a career in the Telugu film industry, known as Tollywood. And the rumour about her having crazy brothers ready to shoot holes in Vicky at a moment’s notice proved unfounded. She was an only child.
Which left Chopra back with the letters, and “The People’s Judge.”
Who was “The People’s Judge”? What was he judging Vicky for? And why send the letters at all? Why threaten a man you intended to kidnap? Why give him any warning? Unless… perhaps this too was part of Das’s insurance scam, a means of creating a trail to later cement the notion that a demented kidnapper had done for Vicky, and thus allay the suspicions of the insurance agency’s investigators.
The fact that Vicky appeared to have dismissed the threats out of hand was fortunate—for the kidnappers. But, of course, P. K. Das knew that Vicky Verma was an arrogant young man, convinced of his own invulnerability. Perhaps Das’s associates had counted on this very weakness of character.
“On time as ever.”
Chopra turned to see Bunty Saigal bearing down on him.
“So,” said Saigal, “what’s this all about?”
Quickly, Chopra explained, asking for his friend’s discretion.
“I suppose if you find him you’ll want to crow about it to the whole world,” said Saigal. “This’ll be a real feather in your cap, eh?”
“Some might ask how Vicky was abducted under the noses of your staff here,” said Chopra mildly.
Saigal frowned. “Hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted, his bulletproof demeanour slipping somewhat. He straightened his shoulders. “I stand by my team. They may not look like much, but they know what they’re doing. Besides, security for us is about keeping the fans from tearing the stars’ clothes off. If we’d had any intimation that Verma was receiving threats I’d have locked the place down.”
Chopra followed Saigal into t
he stadium and down into the dressing room below the stage.
The security chief waited as he carried out his examination.
The room was small and bare, bisected by a pair of load-bearing concrete pillars. Plain sandstone tiles on the floor and whitewash on the walls. A trio of tatty posters for concerts past drooped from the plaster. Twin tubelights threw shadows around the enclosed space. A fly buzzed about aimlessly.
Chopra stood beneath the trapdoor leading up onstage. A wooden ladder extended down from the trapdoor to a thick mat, the kind used in gymnasiums. The fall was only about seven feet.
How had the kidnappers extricated Vicky from here with no one seeing them? That was the real mystery.
He walked around the room, his mind whirling with possibilities. Ganesha followed in his footsteps until Chopra bumped into him, and scowled, encouraging his ward to go off and investigate on his own.
Suddenly, the little elephant froze, his bottom protruding from a large alcove to one side of the room. Something had caught his eye.
His trunk swept over the floor. Using the prehensile finger at the end of the trunk he picked up the glittering object.
“What have you got there, boy?”
Ganesha turned away, not yet ready to share his shiny treasure.
“Young man,” said Chopra sternly.
Reluctantly, Ganesha handed over his booty. Then he stomped off in a huff.
Chopra examined the find.
It was a chain bracelet, silver, with an ID plate. On the ID plate were scrawled the words: To my dearest brother. On the inner side of the plate were the jeweller’s details: Ghazalbhai Jewellers, Naya Nagar, Mira Rd.
The plate was scraped, and the chain’s clasp had broken.
He peered into the gloomy alcove.
A series of dark stains marked the rear wall about three feet up.
Chopra dropped to his knees and took a closer look, his fingertips brushing over the dried stains. A shiver passed through him as he realised that the stains were blood—he had seen enough such blood spatter to know that they had been deposited relatively recently. And yet the floor was devoid of similar stains. This was an anomaly, for if, as Chopra now surmised, Vicky Verma had been struck by a blunt object, rendering him unconscious and depositing the blood droplets, then some of those droplets should have fallen to the floor. The fact that they were not there indicated that something else had been.
