3 and a Half Murders: An Inspector Saralkar Mystery

by Salil Desai

  “Let’s see what we can do,” he replied.

  Kunika Ahuja’s swarthy, pockmarked, middle-aged face had been troubled and reflective ever since she had seen the news flash on TV that morning of the grisly fate of the Doshis. The sight of Anushka Doshi’s photo had chilled her as she recollected her own unpleasant encounter with the woman. It was a chapter she would’ve liked to erase permanently from her memory, but the human brain was no computer in this regard and there was no recycle bin that could be completely emptied.

  How could she forget Anushka Doshi’s amiable, fleshy features made distinctive only by a boxer nose, which transformed into a cruel, wicked expression capable of unimaginable evil in a matter of seconds? And the gruff, husky but friendly voice that turned into a threatening, menacing, ruthless tone?

  “Horrible woman!” Kunika Ahuja muttered to herself as she fed her dog Bruno and petted him. Bruno was too preoccupied with the food to reply. Kunika shuddered and said a silent prayer to the Almighty.

  Although it had been more than two months, she still lived with the fear that Anushka Doshi would enter her life again. Kunika had felt terribly vulnerable and rarely went anywhere without Bruno, her only companion and, of course, her bodyguard—a pugnacious, black Labrador committed to his mistress. Kunika Ahuja knew she would have had no qualms in ordering him to ferociously attack Anushka Doshi if she came anywhere near her, and Bruno would do it too, although the friendliest of creatures otherwise.

  “Good dog!” she petted him again, suddenly feeling happy and relieved. Why was she worried now? Anushka Doshi was dead. No longer a danger to her! The forty-year-old spinster sighed and started getting ready to go to her gifts and cards shop, bequeathed to her by her father four years ago, knowing well that his daughter’s chances of ever getting married were virtually over, given her age, plain looks, and stocky, starchy frame.

  Then suddenly a thought entered her mind—something that had bothered her earlier too. Wasn’t it possible that Anushka Doshi had tried to ensnare other lonely, unmarried, disoriented women like her looking for solace, friendship, meaning, and support? Women who had some money and property and could become easy prey—emotionally, psychologically, financially, and physically. Kunika Ahuja suddenly wondered whether it was her duty to inform the police about Anushka’s racket.

  “What difference does it make now?” she said to herself. Yet it continued to nag her subconsciously. She had no inclination to get involved with the police needlessly. She knew it would only bring trouble her way. Yet, now that Anushka Doshi was dead, Kunika Ahuja felt a powerful need to share and get her ordeal off her chest.

  As she began unlocking her door, she wondered whether she needed to take Bruno along any longer to her shop. Maybe she didn’t, but Bruno was no longer used to staying all alone at home. He barked at her now as if gently reminding her that he was to be taken along too.

  Of course he was right. Kunika Ahuja untied his strap, pulled him out, and locked the door. Two minutes later as they drove down the road, Kunika hit upon an idea. She would send an anonymous tip to the police so that she would’ve done her duty and yet not got personally involved. The only question that needed to be answered was whether to make an anonymous phone call to the police or send an anonymous letter.

  Saralkar and Motkar studied Somnath Gawli who had been ushered into their presence—a six-foot, strapping, thirty-five-year-old character with close cropped hair as if he’d just returned from Tirupati. The dark, unsmiling face was bordered by a trim, salt-pepper beard. He was wearing a white half shirt on a coal black trouser and polished leather shoes. A mobile stuck out from his shirt pocket while another was clutched in his hands. His neck was covered with a couple of gold chains with lockets while a gold bracelet and an assortment of rings bedecked his wrist and fingers respectively.

  Almost true to type, Saralkar thought—the man in front of him had to be a real estate agent or a petty contractor of some sort, who would one day try his hand at becoming a municipal corporator to consolidate whatever money, muscle and political clout he enjoyed.

  Gawli had made a deferential gesture to the policemen as he entered—his right palm going to his chest in salutation accompanied by a brisk bow of his head—an abridged version of the Maratha mujra. Not a man who was intimidated by the police but not keen to offend them either.

  “Sit down. How did you know Sanjay Doshi?” Saralkar wasted no time in asking.

  Somnath Gawli sat down. His mouth opened slightly to answer, then realized that he had forgotten to spit out the tobacco he had been chewing before entering. He squeezed and adjusted the plug of tobacco to one side of his mouth and spoke telegraphically. “Land deals.” The saliva generated almost spilled out with the words, but he managed to avoid it.

  “He owed you money?” Saralkar continued.

  This time Gawli realized he had to do something if his words were not to be incoherent. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he quickly swallowed the tobacco expertly along with the accompanying saliva. His stomach protested with a little hiccough but that was it. “Yes, he did. About ten lakhs.”

  “You had a dispute with him, right?”

  Somnath Gawli’s face was impassive. “What dispute, sir?”

  “Perhaps he wanted more time to pay you the money he owed,” Saralkar said in an I-know-it tone.

  “Why do you say that?” Gawli asked, his hand pulling at the sweaty collar sticking to his neck.

  Saralkar gazed at him, quietly waiting for him to become a little shifty, then said, “You know Sanjay Doshi committed suicide right after killing his wife?”

  Gawli’s body language became more wary. “Yes . . . I saw . . .” His hands clasped each other.

  Motkar noted that he didn’t add any clichés like ‘Poor man!’ or ‘Terrible tragedy!’ which most people would have, without really feeling so.

  “He left behind a suicide note,” Saralkar continued, his tone a little harsher now, “blaming some of his creditors for hounding him.”

  Somnath Gawli’s right hand unclasped itself from the left and went towards his crotch this time, which he adjusted. “I had nothing to do with it,” he replied defensively.

  Saralkar got up from his chair and perched himself on the corner of the table lying between the police officers and Gawli. “You threatened Sanjay Doshi, right!”

  “I did no such thing! Asking for your money is not threatening,” Gawli replied without flinching, even though Saralkar was closer now and looming over him.

  “You know you can be behind bars for driving him to suicide,” Saralkar leaned forward and growled. “Doshi’s suicide note is enough proof . . .”

  The defiance in Gawli’s look and tenor diminished a little as he adjusted his crotch again. “But . . . but I had not spoken to him for more than a week now.”

  “Should I show you the call records? You called him up on Saturday evening,” Saralkar said aggressively.

  “I didn’t call on my own, sir, just check. Doshi gave me a missed call and I just called back, that’s all. I didn’t even speak to him,” Gawli reasoned frantically.

  “You are lying. There’s no missed call from his side,” PSI Motkar interjected quickly. “You had called him.”

  “Believe me, sir, in any case he didn’t take my call,” Gawli replied, his features beginning to look a bit ruffled now.

  “Maybe you had threatened him so badly earlier that even the sight of your incoming call terrorized him!” Saralkar said, now moving in for the kill.

  “No, sir, it was the other way round. It was that wife of his who threatened me not to call him again for the money,” Gawli said, sounding acutely embarrassed. “That’s why I didn’t call again for some time since I wanted to think it through.”

  “What do you mean? Mrs. Doshi threatened you?” Saralkar scoffed. “You expect me to believe that? What could she have said that frightened you enough to stop calling?”

  Gawli looked at Saralkar with bitter reproach. “Believe me,
sir, that woman was a vicious bitch! Do you know what she said? She said she’d file a complaint of molestation and attempted rape against me if I dared confront or call her husband again for the money!”

  The estate agent stopped and looked from one policeman to the other as if asking for justice. “That’s why I . . . I didn’t call. I was wondering how to recover the money without being put behind bars for attempted rape and molestation,” he paused and adjusted his collar again, then said with a look of victimhood, “Sir, you know what it is like these days . . . even without verifying the facts your department colleagues would have arrested me if the lady had made such a bogus complaint. I mean they would’ve had to . . . so I knew I had to be careful.”

  Saralkar knew that the new law which ensured the custody of a man on a mere sexual harassment complaint by any woman, had much potential for misuse, but it had certainly proved to be an effective deterrent.

  “So tell us about your business history with Sanjay Doshi. When did you meet, what did you know about him, what deals did you do together, why did he owe you money?” Saralkar asked.

  Somnath Gawli’s busy fingers were now playing with his gold rings. “I’ll tell you sir, but please tell me first if he has mentioned my name in the suicide note. Because if he has, the bastard was lying!”

  He stopped and glared at both policemen. “Please tell me, sahib, is my name there?”

  Motkar looked at Saralkar, almost anticipating the latter’s reply—bluffing without answering.

  “How do you think we got to know about you, then?” Saralkar said with a convincing smirk.

  Somnath Gawli’s face darkened with anger and frustration. He let loose a volley of abuses in Sanjay Doshi’s memory. “He’ll rot in hell, sir. First the swine cheats me and dupes me off my money just because he’s too weak to live and pay up, and then he dares to put my name in his suicide note.”

  He frothed at his mouth with some more vituperative directed at the late Sanjay Doshi as Saralkar let him vent some steam.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Saralkar finally said. “Your abuses are not going to help you. Tell me the facts I need and we might be persuaded.”

  Gawli calmed down, probably assured by Saralkar’s statement.

  “Sir, Doshi first contacted me about a year ago about some land plots near Tamhini Ghat. He claimed to be from Mumbai and said he was looking for investment options. We met a couple of times to show him different plots. Doshi went through with one or two deals initially.”

  “Which area? Give me the date, name of seller, and the registry office,” PSI Motkar interrupted.

  Gawli seemed to have the information at the tip of his fingers, which he gave to Motkar.

  “Do you have a copy of the papers?”

  “I keep copies in my office, sir.”

  “Okay. Were all payments in white or black and white?” Motkar continued.

  Saralkar cast a disapproving glance in his direction as if hinting that such details could wait.

  But Gawli had already started replying albeit with great hesitation. “I-I can’t help it if Doshi wanted to pay seventy per cent in black, sir. I’m not responsible for the black economy.”

  Saralkar’s interest was aroused. “Doshi paid seventy per cent in black? How the hell do you do it with all the laws?”

  “There are ways, sahib. Anyway, the deals were not very large, just about twenty-five lakhs worth, so it wasn’t a problem.”

  “What about your commission? Was that also paid in black?”

  Gawli didn’t give a straight reply. “Can’t quarrel with a customer, sir!”

  PSI Motkar shook his head but caught Saralkar’s eye, which clearly indicated that he shut up.

  “Okay. What after that?” the senior inspector hastened to ask.

  “Sir, then the bastard started acting smart,” Gawli said, clearly incensed by the memory. “He would go for plot visits and to see other properties with me but would feign no further interest. Then the slimy fellow would take the help of some associate, contact the seller or the owner directly after a few weeks and purchase the land or property without a middleman. That is by cutting me out of the deal. Since he offered them more than fifty per cent in black and because they didn’t have to shell out agent’s commission, the sellers were happy to do the deal.

  “I got wind of it only by chance, because of an acquaintance in one of the registry offices. Naturally I was furious. I began to dig around and found that Doshi had done six or seven such deals of land and properties which he’d first visited with me.”

  Somnath Gawli stopped, almost too indignant now to continue without eliciting a sympathetic response from the policemen.

  “Go on,” Saralkar said, instantly disappointing him.

  Gawli licked his lips, a little put off by the senior inspector’s apathy. “Well, I bloody well wasn’t going to let him get away with it. I confronted the bastard and told him to shell out my commission. First he tried to evade and act smart but eventually agreed to pay me when I cornered him. That was the money I was after. My commission, sir, and he died without paying.”

  “How much did the deals amount to?”

  “I tracked down about five to six crores worth of deals.”

  PSI Motkar raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a bit of money and if you are saying he paid fifty to sixty per cent in cash, that amounts to three to four crores! Where could he have got that kind of cash?”

  Saralkar was nodding his head slowly. “You said he took the help of some associate. Do you know the name?”

  “Some north Indian name, sir. Sodhi, I think. All the deals were made in his name,” Gawli readily replied.

  Saralkar and Motkar were trained never to let a witness or suspect know that the information he had shared was important. It always became that much more difficult to extract. So neither of them exchanged glances even though their excitement was mounting.

  “Sodhi? Do you know this man? Have you ever met him?”

  “No, sir. But all the documents are in his name.”

  “Do you have copies of the documents?” PSI Motkar asked.

  “I got copies of a couple of the deals from sources, before confronting Sanjay Doshi,” Gawli answered.

  “So the documents will have this Sodhi’s photo and address, right, while registering the deal.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gawli said. “Address, yes, but I think he also had a Power of Attorney in some.”

  “Okay, get me those right away and we might not need to take you into custody,” Saralkar said, as if offering a quid pro quo. Gawli, of course, knew he had no choice.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, readjusting his crotch with great relief.

  Mrs. Seema Tambe suffered her first panic attack just after lunch on the following day. She had finished watching her post lunch serial and just as she was about to enter her bedroom for a siesta, an inexplicable fear gripped her.

  Her hands and legs began trembling uncontrollably, her chest began to thud against her rib cage, and she began to sweat copiously like a tap turned on, while her mouth ran dry. Seema Tambe’s senses were suddenly invaded by frenzy so primal that she wanted to run out of her flat screaming. There was somebody in the bedroom waiting to murder her, slaughter her—loud voices in her brain began clamouring. “Run, Seema . . . Scream, Seema . . . Run for your life.”

  And yet Mrs. Tambe couldn’t move. Nor would any sound emanate from her mouth, as if the connection between her mind and body had been suspended. She just sank to the floor, convinced someone was going to step out of her bedroom any moment, put his arms around her neck and choke the life out of her or slash her and leave her to slowly bleed to death.

  She didn’t know how long she sat there, half-crazed, half-paralysed, but it was the doorbell that jolted her into action. Seema Tambe ran for her life, yanked open the door and burst into tears as she collapsed into the arms of her teenage daughter Sapna who had just come home from college.

  Bewildered, Sapna comforted he
r hysterical mother, took her inside after a great deal of coaxing, gave her a glass of water when she finally let her go, and called up her father.

  Back in his office again, Saralkar brooded silently. A constable had been sent to accompany Somnath Gawli to get the papers while Motkar stood busy collating other information related to the investigation.

  Theories usually sprouted in Saralkar’s mind like wild grass on any patch of land after a shower. But his mind had been strangely prosaic today, as if imagination and intuition had taken the day off. Could it be because of that stupid BP medication he had taken in the morning?

  Saralkar grunted with annoyance, suddenly feeling dull and tired and stale. Perhaps he ought to go home or maybe to a movie or to a play. He couldn’t remember the last time he had entertained himself.

  Motkar walked in before he could decide.

  “Anything new?”

  “Nothing much, sir, except that a key, probably the key to a bank locker, was also found in the Doshi house.”

  “Which bank?”

  “No idea, sir. I have asked one of the constables to check with all the banks in the locality tomorrow, either for an account or a locker held by the Doshis,” Motkar replied.

  “Mmm,” Saralkar said clicking his tongue. “If what Gawli says is true and Doshi was dealing in so much cash, finding their bank account might not help much.”

  “I’m pinning my hopes on tracing their locker, sir. Lots of people hold cash and unaccounted money in lockers,” Motkar said.

  “And secrets . . .” Saralkar observed pointedly. “There’s something pretty murky about all this. Shady land deals, an aggressive wife who ill treats her husband, threatens a creditor, and has an affair with her husband’s partner or associate, who also happens to be a front for the land deals . . .”

  “In a way doesn’t it make sense, sir? The abused and cuckolded husband suddenly can’t take it any more. All his hate erupts, he goes berserk with rage, turns on his chief tormentor, his wife, kills her, and then ends his own life.”