Bad Day at the Vulture Club

by Vaseem Khan

  ‘I would blame fate,’ mumbled Chopra, ‘but I don’t want to get him into trouble.’

  Poppy frowned. ‘This is all a joke to you, isn’t it? But you are not the one who has to take the call telling you that your husband has just been wheeled into hospital suffering from God knows what.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Chopra. ‘But then, I don’t have a husband.’

  Poppy looked at him, temporarily speechless. Behind her, a snicker escaped Homi before he could clamp a hand over his mouth.

  Poppy straightened, then smoothed down the front of her sari with ominous deliberation. ‘I am surrounded by children,’ she said, her voice tight with anger.

  ‘There’s really nothing to worry about,’ Homi chimed in. ‘A few bumps and bruises. We’ll keep him here for a night to observe him. Couple of days and he’ll be right as rain.’

  Poppy wheeled on him. ‘Is that so? Well, in that case, why don’t you look after him, Mr Right-as-Rain? Perhaps he can live with you for a while, and then you can chase around after him, make sure he takes his tablets, and try to keep him from having another heart attack?’

  Without a further word, or a backwards glance, she stormed from the room.

  ‘Was it something I said?’ muttered Homi.

  ‘Did you just get thrown out of your house?’ said Rangwalla in wonder. ‘I thought that sort of thing only happened to me.’

  Chopra swung his legs out of bed. His bare feet trembled on the cold floor; a waft of air snaked up his breezy hospital gown.

  ‘There’s no point going after her until she’s calmed down,’ said Homi.

  ‘I am not going after her,’ said Chopra. ‘I am going to the bathroom. It is a lot safer in there, I think.’

  When he returned, Homi had gone.

  Rangwalla, however, was still waiting for him. ‘A hospital is no place to be sick. As my father used to say: they’re just waiting rooms to the grave.’

  ‘Thank you for your positive sentiments,’ muttered Chopra.

  ‘Is there anything you need me to do?’ Rangwalla asked. ‘Given that you are temporarily out of action.’

  ‘I am not out of action,’ said Chopra irritably. ‘My brain is still functioning.’

  ‘Fine. In that case, did you get the number plate of the goons who chased you?’

  Chopra shook his head. A thought occurred to him. ‘My van. There was paperwork inside it. From the Serious Fraud Investigation Office.’

  Rangwalla beamed at him. He reached down into a bag set beside him on the floor. ‘Do not worry. I have it all here.’

  Chopra was surprised. ‘You went into a condemned building to recover evidence? That was courageous of you.’

  Rangwalla had the decency to look embarrassed. ‘Well, I didn’t exactly go into the building myself. I paid a couple of locals. I thought I would help them out. Giving back to society and all that.’

  ‘You thought you would help them out by sending them into a condemned building that might collapse at any moment?’ Chopra’s tone could have stripped the paint from the walls.

  ‘Well, they didn’t seem to mind. Cost me fifty rupees, too. I suppose I can claim it back as expenses?’ His tone was hopeful.

  Chopra took the grubby-looking sheaf of papers from Rangwalla. He glanced through them, considering his next course of action.

  His investigations had clearly stirred up a hornet’s nest. His visit to the offices of Karma Holdings – and his enquiries into the deaths of Arushi Kadam and Vijay Narlikar – had, in all probability, led to Om Kaabra issuing the order to have him attacked.

  But what now?

  Would they continue to come after him?

  Had they just intended to warn him off or did they plan to stop him for good?

  The response seemed disproportionate. After all, the evidence Chopra had collected was largely circumstantial. Enough to weave a convincing narrative, but not enough to build a case in court.

  And there was also the question that continued to pulse at the very heart of the puzzle: how exactly did this all tie in with the murder of Cyrus Zorabian?

  He looked at the papers in his lap, at the names of the shell companies that lay behind Karma Holdings.

  ‘Your contact at the BMC,’ he said. ‘The one who helped you. What was his name?’

  ‘Soman? What about him?’

  ‘Do you trust him?’

  Rangwalla’s dark brow corrugated into a series of worried grooves. ‘You think he put Kaabra on to you?’ He shook his head. ‘No. He wouldn’t have bothered helping me if he was on Kaabra’s payroll. Besides, he seemed like an honest man. And I have met so few of them in my life that they are easy to spot.’

  Chopra gave this due consideration.

  ‘In that case there is something I would like you to do.’

  It was an hour later, a few minutes before midnight, when the door was flung open and Assistant Commissioner of Police Suresh Rao marched into the hospital room, closely followed by Inspector Avinash Kelkar.

  Chopra was halfway to his bed, limping back from the toilet.

  He froze as Rao ran his eyes over him. ‘The exposed bottom suits you,’ he said dryly.

  Chopra flushed with that singular sense of humiliation that one feels only when embarrassed before a mortal enemy. ‘What are you doing here?’ he ground out, turning to face the ACP.

  ‘I heard that you had been in an accident. I came to reassure myself that you had been gravely hurt. Alas, that does not appear to be the case.’

  Chopra scowled. ‘Who told you that I was here?’

  ‘That is irrelevant. What is not, however, is the fact that you have not filed a single report with Kelkar.’

  ‘Report? You seem to keep forgetting: I do not report to Kelkar. Or to you.’

  ‘And you seem to be forgetting that the murder of Cyrus Zorabian is still, officially, a police investigation. You may think that your client has influence with the commissioner, but sooner or later you will trip over your own feet and cause a stink. We will see just how willing he is to tolerate you running roughshod over the force then.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ retorted Chopra. ‘He has tolerated you doing exactly that for thirty years.’

  Rao’s face swelled with rage. ‘Always the joker. We will see who is laughing at the end of your so-called investigation. What exactly have you discovered so far? Nothing, I will wager.’ He stepped forward. ‘Two days. I will give you two days, and then I will personally speak with the commissioner. He is a political animal. He will not permit a private investigator to embarrass the service.’ He spun on his heels, and would have made an impressive exit from the room had he not barrelled straight into Kelkar, the pair of them tumbling to the floor in a flail of arms and legs.

  Rao extricated himself from his deputy, and leapt to his feet, his jowls quivering with fury. ‘How many times do I have to tell you not to stand behind me! Again and again, and still you do it!’

  Kelkar wilted before the onslaught.

  Rao’s face expanded and contracted like a bullfrog. He jammed his peaked cap on his head, and stalked from the room.

  Kelkar gave Chopra a painful grimace. ‘He’s not as bad as he seems.’

  ‘I hate to disillusion you,’ said Chopra. ‘I worked with him for years. He is exactly as he seems.’

  ‘He does have a point. This was supposed to be a co-operative endeavour.’

  ‘It will be a cold day in hell before Rao and I cooperate on anything.’

  Kelkar sighed. ‘I am just trying to do my job.’

  Chopra examined the younger man with a critical eye. Perhaps he was being unfair. It was hardly Kelkar’s fault that fate had conspired to saddle him with Rao as a commanding officer. ‘Very well. I will tell you what I have discovered. On one condition. That you do not pass on the information to Rao. Not yet, at any rate. I do not trust him, and nothing you say will convince me otherwise.’

  Kelkar hesitated, then took off his peaked cap, ran a weary hand through his hair, and coll
apsed into a seat. ‘Very well.’

  Over the course of the following thirty minutes Chopra brought the policeman up to speed on all that he had discovered since their first meeting.

  When he had finished Kelkar looked deflated.

  ‘You have made a great deal of progress,’ he said in a wilting voice.

  Chopra suspected the man was feeling, acutely, the shortcomings of his own initial efforts. ‘Don’t doubt yourself. Your investigation was as sound as it could have been with Rao on your case. One thing I have discovered since becoming a private investigator is that people are far more willing to talk to a man in a shirt than an officer in khaki.’

  Kelkar heaved himself up and out of his seat. ‘So, your conjecture is that Cyrus had got into bed with the wrong elements, and this led to his murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now these same forces are intent on shutting down your enquiry? To the point of attempting to kill you?’

  Chopra nodded.

  Kelkar drew back his shoulders. ‘How can I help?’

  Chopra considered the offer.

  It was well-intentioned, and he hadn’t the heart to turn the man down. ‘Perhaps you could ask around. What does the Brihanmumbai police service know about Om Kaabra? If he is on the radar of the Serious Fraud Investigation Office, then his activities may be known to others. Any information would be useful.’

  ‘I will do my best.’ He walked to the door, then stopped. ‘I have been on the force twenty years. In all that time I have never suffered so much as a scratch, never fired my weapon in anger . . . What does it feel like? To be in a life-and-death situation, knowing you might not make it to the morning?’

  Chopra stared at him. ‘Perhaps the next time I walk into a hail of bullets I will invite you along.’

  Kelkar appeared not to notice the sarcasm. His eyes shone. ‘Really?’

  Chopra gave him a withering look before turning back to his bed.

  The worm in the apple

  Poppy returned just before lunch the next day, accompanied by Irfan.

  She found her husband dozing in his bed, papers strewn over his quilt. She gently banged the steel tiffin she had brought along on his bedside trolley, snapping him awake. His haggard features brightened into a smile. ‘I am glad you came back.’

  ‘I brought you some food,’ she said. ‘God knows what they’re feeding you in here.’ She turned away and began fiddling with the tiffin.

  Moments later the room was filled with the redolent smell of potato and cauliflower curry. Chopra felt his mouth gush with saliva. When was the last time he had really eaten?

  Having laid out the meal, Poppy straightened. ‘I apologise for shouting yesterday. I suppose by now I should be accustomed to you getting into this sort of situation.’

  ‘Are you still angry with me?’

  ‘It’s not anger,’ said Poppy. ‘It’s concern. You cannot understand how hard it is, knowing that you are out there treating life as if it is some sort of “plucking the chicken” game.’

  Chopra turned this around in his mind. Ah. ‘You mean “playing chicken”.’

  ‘What does it matter if it’s plucking or playing?’ said Poppy. ‘The chicken always ends up dead.’

  ‘You are being unfair. I did not ask for this. I was merely following through with my investigation. I had no idea where it would lead.’

  Poppy unleashed a deep sigh. ‘I know,’ she wailed. ‘It’s just – it’s just . . . Why is it always you?’

  Chopra paused before replying. ‘Because I care,’ he said simply.

  Her face cracked into the ghost of a smile. ‘So do I. About you.’

  She sat down, set his tray on the bed, and watched him eat.

  Irfan, deeming it now safe to approach, came up and gave Chopra a hug. ‘I made you this,’ he said. He handed him a card. The front showed a crude drawing of what looked like a hillock with legs, and a stick figure with a moustache slightly bigger than its head. ‘It is you and Ganesha.’

  ‘It is wonderful,’ said Chopra.

  Irfan beamed.

  ‘My mother sent you laxatives,’ said Poppy.

  ‘Poppy, I ran my van into a building. I do not have constipation.’ He munched on a pickle. ‘How is Ganesha?’

  ‘He is grounded. A day or two indoors will be good for him.’

  Chopra could not argue with that. The little elephant had gone above and beyond the call of duty, and was lucky to have come away from the episode unscathed. It always bothered him that his activities sometimes placed his ward in harm’s way. Yet he would rather have the little elephant by his side than not. Chopra did not believe in luck. But if there was such a thing then Ganesha was, certifiably, two hundred kilos of good fortune.

  He changed the topic. ‘How goes it with your, ah, initiative?’

  ‘The Poo2Loo campaign?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We have had a minor setback.’

  ‘Oh? What happened?’ Chopra smiled. ‘Did Mr Poo run off again?’

  ‘No,’ said Poppy gravely. ‘Mr Poo accidentally set fire to himself.’

  Chopra nearly choked on his chapatti.

  ‘As you know, Bahadur was our new campaign mascot. He tried to smoke a cigarette without taking off his suit and somehow set fire to it. He is unharmed, thank God.’

  Chopra tried to imagine a giant turd running down the street aflame. His imagination failed him.

  Rangwalla arrived just as Poppy was washing out the tiffin in the sink.

  He marched across the room, and set down a leather satchel on Chopra’s bedside table with a triumphant flourish. ‘Soman was more than helpful. In there you will find copies of all documents pertaining to properties purchased by Karma Holdings and its nested shell companies in the past decade which involved BMC permissions or approvals. Many of them were, in fact, repossessions by the BMC – buildings that had been condemned and seized – and later sold on at auction to Karma Holdings. There are over seventy of them inside Mumbai’s municipal limits.’ He paused. ‘You were right. In almost every single case, Geeta Lokhani signed off on the seizure and the subsequent sale to Karma. There is additional paperwork attached to some of the cases. It appears that a number of the owners of these properties attempted to initiate court action against the BMC’s orders. They either quickly changed their minds, or else mysteriously vanished. In at least two cases, they were killed in freak accidents.’

  Chopra considered this wealth of new information.

  His instincts may have led to the discovery, but Rangwalla’s industry in putting flesh around the bones of his conjecture impressed him greatly. ‘Well done, Rangwalla,’ he said. ‘This is superb investigative work. You have outdone yourself.’

  His former deputy preened, basking in the rare moment of glory.

  ‘Did you bring the map?’

  ‘Also in the folder.’

  Chopra spread the map of Mumbai on the bed.

  Rangwalla rummaged in his bag and held out a red felt-tipped pen. ‘You might need this.’

  Chopra smiled. ‘Your initiative is improving in leaps and bounds.’

  ‘Shall I read out the addresses?’

  ‘That would be helpful.’

  One by one Rangwalla dipped into the satchel and removed the documents he had obtained. He riffled through the pages and read out the address of each property purchased by Karma Holdings and its associated companies, as Chopra made a corresponding mark on the map, together with a date of purchase. They quickly became engrossed in their work, and barely noticed when Poppy and Irfan made their farewells and left.

  As much as she wished to stay, she had another busy day ahead on the Poo2Loo campaign.

  She paused at the door, looking back at her husband, his injuries seemingly forgotten. If she was honest with herself this was how she had always pictured him, engrossed in the work that gave meaning to his existence. Would she truly wish him to be any other way?

  A sad smile flickered over her lips, and then
she slipped out quietly, unwilling to disturb them.

  Ten minutes later a nurse shuffled in, wheeling an ECG monitor. She bumped into Rangwalla, took one look at his face, and shrank back in fright. ‘My God, you are much worse than they told me!’

  ‘I am not the patient,’ said Rangwalla stonily.

  The nurse donned a pair of spectacles hanging from a chain around her neck and peered closely at him. ‘Are you sure? You could give a corpse a fright.’

  Chopra concentrated on the map.

  A pattern had begun to emerge.

  At first the properties that Karma Holdings had bought up were scattered at sites around the city, but then, over the past three years, those sites became concentrated around one particular region. As he continued to mark the map, a suspicion began to form, gradually hardening into certainty. He began to understand exactly what Om Kaabra had been up to, and the audacity of it took his breath away.

  He felt his hands closing around the truth.

  And with this insight came the blinding realisation that perhaps, just perhaps, he had finally uncovered the true motive behind Cyrus Zorabian’s death.

  Vote for Geeta Lokhani!

  The campaign offices of Geeta Lokhani, prospective member of the Legislative Assembly, were located on the ground floor of a well-heeled building in the wealthy suburb of Juhu. On one side was a designer fashion boutique, on the other a trendy patisserie.

  The doctor in charge of Chopra had been unhappy about discharging him, in spite of reassurances that he was feeling fine. It had taken the intervention of Homi Contractor to engineer his escape. Homi had pulled the junior man aside and informed him, briskly, that Chopra was well known for his Lazarus-like powers of recovery.

  ‘Poppy will kill me if she finds out,’ he had said to his friend on the way out.

  ‘Join the club,’ Chopra had muttered in reply.

  He glanced back at the police jeep that had brought him this far.

  Behind the fly-splattered windscreen Inspector Kelkar waited nervously.

  Two hours earlier Kelkar had arrived at the hospital with a manila file in hand. In the file was the information on Om Kaabra that Chopra had requested, cobbled together from a variety of police sources.