by Vaseem Khan
Chopra chuckled. ‘Policing is certainly not his strong suit.’ He waited as Sheriwal picked up her phone and called outside. A constable arrived at the double, somewhat breathless from his sprint, and handed her a file. He salaamed crisply, then backpedalled from the room just as smartly.
Sheriwal held the file out to Chopra. ‘Be my guest.’
Chopra flicked through the paperwork.
The burned-out vehicle had been found in a deserted industrial complex scheduled for demolition; no one had seen it being driven into the complex, or being torched. The make and model had been determined as a Maruti Baleno, one of the most common cars in the city. The number plates had been removed, as had the VIN number, making an identification of the vehicle’s registered owner difficult. When the owner had finally been tracked down – through a lengthy process of elimination – it turned out that the car had been stolen months earlier. As for the bodies – they remained unidentified.
He pulled out a series of photographs, taken in situ, showing the blackened cadavers, both in their seats within the burned car, and laid out on stretchers by the authorities. The images were gruesome, the bodies twisted by the reflex contraction of muscles during the process of burning.
The faces, in particular, were hellish, props from a horror movie.
Sheriwal’s eyes lingered on his face. ‘I suppose it’s some consolation that they were both already dead prior to being burned,’ she said. ‘Shot in the back of the head. We matched the bullets to 9mm Mungers, made in Bihar. A weapon of choice for Mumbai’s underworld.’
‘It says here the autopsy identified the corpses as a male and a female.’
‘Correct. We were also able to determine their approximate ages. For the female: twenty-one to twenty-three; for the male: twenty-seven to twenty-nine. No identifiers were left with the bodies – they had been stripped naked.’
‘Someone went to a lot of trouble to ensure their identities would remain hidden.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Sheriwal. ‘Our working theory at the time was that they were young lovers running away from families that disagreed with their relationship. Perhaps one, or both, of the families hired thugs to take care of the problem. It would not be the first time in this fine country of ours.’
It was a sound hypothesis, thought Chopra. ‘I assume you checked against the missing persons lists?’
‘Of course,’ said Sheriwal, a trace of annoyance entering her tone. ‘But if the families had been involved they would not have reported them missing. And if they were not involved . . . Well, the number of missing persons in this city at any one time is beyond reckoning. There was simply not enough information for us to narrow down the list of potentials to a practical number, not with the manpower at my disposal. And, frankly, who in this city cares about two unclaimed bodies? As a former policeman, you should know the golden rule: don’t do anything until someone raises a stink.’
Chopra understood what she meant. Due to the lack of resources, policing in Mumbai was often a matter of triage, of doing the best you could with what little you had.
But sometimes a crime would grab hold of your throat and refuse to let go.
This was one such crime.
Perhaps Sheriwal sensed his thoughts. She leaned back and fixed him with a thoughtful look. ‘What is this really about?’
Chopra considered saying nothing. Then again, he was the one asking for help. Trust cut both ways.
He quickly explained his investigation into Cyrus Zorabian’s death.
‘So this is what you do now? Run around second-guessing real police work?’
He bristled. ‘I do what the police should have done in the first place.’
‘Who made you judge and jury of our competence?’
Chopra glowered. ‘Either you can help me or not. The choice is yours.’
She continued to stare at him, then muttered, ‘You can take the cop out of his khaki, but you cannot take the khaki out of the cop.’ She raised a placatory hand. ‘I didn’t say I would not help.’ She tapped the article where it lay on her desk. ‘Why would Zorabian have kept this? Do you think he knew these two?’
‘I don’t know. I am learning more about the man by the hour. I get the feeling that I have only scratched the surface.’
‘Then I guess we are back to square one.’
‘There may be something we can do. To identify these bodies, I mean. But I will have to speak with a colleague first.’ He scraped back his chair. ‘I will keep you informed. Thank you for your cooperation.’
An old friend comes in handy
Back at the restaurant Chopra left Ganesha in his compound, then waited in his office for Rangwalla to arrive. When his associate detective finally showed up, wiping the dirt and sweat from his throat with a dirty handkerchief, he seemed less than satisfied with his lot in life.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Chopra.
‘I was thrown out of a rickshaw,’ said Rangwalla, smacking dust out of his jeans.
‘What did you do?’
Rangwalla scowled. ‘Why is it that whenever something like this happens you automatically assume I was the one at fault?’
Chopra waited.
Rangwalla slumped into the seat before him. ‘The rickshaw driver had a picture of his father on the dashboard. I merely commented that he was a striking-looking man.’
‘He took offence at that?’
Rangwalla had the decency to look away. ‘Apparently, it was not a picture of his father. It was his wife.’
They ordered fresh lime juices. Irfan brought them in, whistling a jaunty Bollywood tune as he entered.
‘Did you finish your homework?’ he asked as Irfan set down his glass.
Irfan puffed out his cheeks. ‘Yes.’
Chopra raised an eyebrow.
‘Weell . . . I’ve finished most of it,’ said Irfan.
Chopra smiled. Irfan had grown up on the streets and as a consequence had received little in the way of formal schooling. Poppy had tried to rectify the matter by hiring a tutor to visit him at the restaurant, in between his shifts. Initially reluctant, Irfan had, in time, taken to the new regime. He still refused to move into their apartment, however, preferring to stay at the restaurant where he could be close to Ganesha.
In a way, Chopra was glad.
The boy had a streak of independence, a rebelliousness that he hoped he would never lose. Poppy’s intentions were well-meaning, but she didn’t quite realise that Irfan’s upbringing had left him with a mind all of his own.
‘What case are you investigating now?’ Irfan asked.
‘A very complicated one.’
‘Uncle Rangwalla said you were working with Parsees?’
Uncle Rangwalla. Chopra tried to picture his deputy in an avuncular light, and failed.
‘It’s true that my latest case involves the Parsee community.’
‘Is it true that they are all crazy and that they secretly eat their dead when no one is looking?’
‘Where did you hear that?’ said Chopra.
Irfan’s eyes swivelled towards Uncle Rangwalla, who looked as if he’d swallowed a small bird and was now choking on it.
‘That is untrue as well as being unkind,’ said Chopra eventually. ‘We should never make fun of others just because they are different.’
‘But Uncle Rangwalla is always telling jokes about the Parsees.’
Chopra glared at his assistant detective who blushed under his beard.
He stood up and ruffled Irfan’s hair. ‘Go on. Off you go.’
Irfan paused at the door. ‘You’re very busy these days, aren’t you?’
Chopra understood the question behind the question. ‘I’m sorry. I have been very busy. But I promise, once I make some headway on this case, I will find time to take you out. Perhaps a day trip to Elephanta Island? We’ll take Ganesha as well. He will enjoy that.’
‘That boy’s as eager as a Gurkha with two grenades,’ said Rangwalla, after Irfan had left.
> Quickly, Chopra brought him up to speed with the investigation into Cyrus Zorabian’s death.
‘You seem to have waded into a swamp,’ commented his deputy. ‘Do you really think there was more to his death than a random attack?’
‘It’s too early to say. But there are matters here that I believe the initial investigation either did not uncover, or could not be bothered to follow through.’
‘Does it surprise you? With Rao in charge?’
‘I suppose not. Anyway, how did you get on?’
It was Rangwalla’s turn to describe his prison meeting with Hasan Gafoor.
‘Do you believe him?’ asked Chopra, when he had finished.
Rangwalla looked uncomfortable. ‘He seemed genuine. Perhaps he’s the one true innocent in this city. The mythical virgin in a whorehouse.’
Chopra winced. His deputy had always had a colourful grasp of language. ‘What will you do next?’
Rangwalla shrugged. ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘I think you should use your initiative. You are no longer my junior officer, Rangwalla.’
Rangwalla gave him a sour look. He hated the idea of using his initiative. In his experience using one’s initiative usually got people like him into trouble.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ he muttered.
Chopra suppressed a smile. He had always suspected that his former sub-inspector had a keen mind, though one that worked in a different manner to his own. Men like Rangwalla hated the limelight; yet, so often, when the dung hit the fan, they rose magnificently to the occasion.
Rangwalla squirmed in his seat for a few moments longer, before a flash of insight jolted him upright. ‘I need to find out who it was that tried to strong-arm Gafoor into selling his plot.’
Chopra nodded approvingly. ‘And how exactly will you do that?’
Rangwalla hesitated. His mind had gone alarmingly blank, as if the effort of deduction had drained him of further inspiration.
Chopra relented. ‘Do you remember ACP Ajit Shinde?’
‘The one with the wooden leg? Married whatshisname’s sister, the girl with the squint and the donkey? Used to drag it around with her everywhere she went. She was a bit soft in the head, by all accounts. Then again, Shinde was no catch himself.’
‘No,’ said Chopra stonily. ‘That was Constable Shankar. Shinde always used to say that in situations such as this, the best thing to do is to follow the money. If I were you I would find out precisely who benefited from Gafoor’s misfortune.’
When he entered his apartment Chopra’s first task was to check on his impromptu houseguest. He stepped into his office, expecting to find the vulture lodged on the perch she had found for herself on his bookshelf.
But there was no sign of the bird.
‘Poppy,’ he said, stepping back out into the living room, ‘where is the vulture?’
Poppy, who was sitting at the table filling out a complicated-looking form, did not look up. He guessed that she was still upset about the matter. ‘I think my mother took him,’ she finally ground out.
Chopra paled. ‘Your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You didn’t ask?’
‘I was busy,’ said Poppy, signing her form with a flourish.
‘Where did she take her?’
‘Her?’ Poppy looked up.
‘Yes. The bird is a she.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘It’s strange. I’ve never thought of a vulture as a she. I suppose there have to be female ones otherwise they’d die out. Possibly due to lack of common sense.’ Chopra smiled, but Poppy did not smile back. ‘I think she said she was taking her up to the terrace.’
When Chopra reached the building’s roof he discovered his mother-in-law, Poornima Devi, sitting with Mrs Subramanium in a pair of bamboo chairs, the pair of them bent deep in conspiracy. Before them lay a steel tray upon which were stretched out a trio of dead rats, the vulture hunkered in front of the tray.
As Chopra looked on, the bird grasped one of the rats with a talon, then tore off its head with her beak.
‘What are you doing?’ he gaped.
‘What does it look like we’re doing?’ replied Poornima, pulling at her white sari as a gobbet of half-masticated rodent fell from the bird’s mouth to land beside her sandalled foot. ‘We are training the bird to eat rats.’
‘Why?’
‘So that it can help clean up this building. We are infested with them at present; all coming over from that new slum. Belligerent ones, too. The other day one of the little devils was sitting on my dresser, bold as brass.’
‘I must say, Chopra,’ chimed in Mrs Subramanium, ‘we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but this is a most excellent idea of yours.’
‘Mine?’ said Chopra weakly.
‘Well, you brought the bird home, didn’t you?’ said Poornima.
‘That bird is part of an ongoing investigation,’ protested Chopra.
‘That doesn’t mean it cannot earn its keep while it is staying with us.’
‘But you’re feeding her dead rats!’
‘It is a vulture,’ pointed out his mother-in-law acidly. ‘What were you intending to feed it? Lentil soup? Samosas?’
Chopra realised that for once, contrary to all that was holy, his mother-in-law had a point. He looked down at the vulture; the arch scavenger had gobbled down the first rat and was tearing enthusiastically into the second.
‘There really is no need to get your bowels in an uproar,’ continued Poornima, squinting at him out of her one working eye. ‘Bahadur will bring it back down again when we are done.’
Feeling somewhat light-headed Chopra returned to the flat where he found Poppy humming around the kitchen; she had completed her form and was beginning preparations for dinner.
He noticed the form was still on the table.
He picked it up and scrutinised it.
It was an application to join the Poo2Loo campaign’s ‘Volunteer Leaders’ programme. The form began with a formal petition, which each applicant was required to sign:
Hon’ble President of India,
I call on you as Head of State to ensure that India rises to the challenge of ending open defecation. As a citizen of India, I am proud of our country’s rich and varied culture; we have a beautiful land. However, over 620 million people do not use a toilet and nearly as many accept this practice. The result is an unacceptable level of filth in our environment. This is why I have chosen to take a stand. Together we can change India.
Poppy’s complicated signature was inscribed beneath the text together with two carefully drawn hearts and the official mascot of the movement – an animated turd named Mr Poo.
Chopra, shaking his head, put down the form, then took out his notebook.
As Poppy made dinner, chattering animatedly about her upcoming activities on behalf of the campaign, he went through his notes from the day. He counted his blessings that she appeared to have temporarily forgotten about Vulturegate.
The investigation had thrown up more questions than it had answered. He felt the ripple of familiar currents moving around him; the swirl of things both seen and unseen. The cash found in Cyrus’s locker, the Latin letters, the feud with Boman Jeejibhoy, the press article about the dead boy and girl. Again he sensed that there was more to Cyrus Zorabian than had met the eye.
But was that not often the way?
How often during his career had he dug behind the public mask only to discover an altogether different reality underneath?
He had learned to rely on his instincts. Those same instincts now nagged him to pick up his phone and dial a number he had not employed for some time.
‘Superintendent Bomberton, please,’ he said, when the phone was answered.
‘That’s Mr Superintendent to you,’ said Maxwell Bomberton on the other end of the line.
Chopra smiled. ‘If they keep promoting you at this rate you’ll
soon be commissioner.’
Bomberton gave a growl of laughter. ‘How are things over in the cesspool of dreams, Chopra?’
‘Don’t let the Mumbai tourist board hear you call it that.’
They shared a chuckle.
A few months earlier Max Bomberton, a senior detective in the UK’s Metropolitan Police, had assisted Chopra in the recovery of the famed Koh-i-Noor diamond. The priceless jewel had been brought to Mumbai as part of a special exhibition of the British Crown Jewels, only to be promptly stolen in a daring heist. With Bomberton’s help Chopra had managed to track down and recover the diamond, earning the gratitude of both British and Indian governments. Bomberton’s star had been on the rise ever since.
‘I need your help with something,’ said Chopra.
‘What can I do for you, old friend?’
‘I have been hired to look into the murder of a wealthy industrialist. His personal assistant is an Englishman. He grew up in a place called Yeovil. I need some background.’
‘Is he a suspect?’
‘I don’t know. But something about him is not sitting right with me. I suppose I am simply being thorough.’
‘Why change the habit of a lifetime, eh?’ said Bomberton. ‘Do you have some details for me, or shall I just read your mind?’
Chopra took out the photocopy of William Buckley’s passport provided to him by the Zorabian company’s HR office, photographed the relevant pages using his mobile, then texted them to Bomberton. He also sent over details of Buckley’s previous employer in Mumbai – Peter Brewer – the Englishman who had eventually returned to the UK.
‘It would be useful if you could also locate this gentleman,’ said Chopra. ‘He may provide valuable insight into Buckley’s past.’
‘Anything else I can do for Your Highness? Back rub? Breakfast in bed?’ Bomberton’s sarcasm dripped down the phone.
‘No. This will be enough,’ said Chopra, who was tone-deaf to irony.
‘Grim-looking bugger,’ remarked Bomberton, meaning Buckley. ‘I’ll get someone on it asap. Right. Must dash. Got a meeting with the chief super. He’s not in a good mood. Hairdryer at the ready, if you catch my drift.’
