Sharma came back to life. ‘Yes, sir. Taxol.’
‘Hang on a second. Was Manochar suffering from cancer?’
‘Sir, the autopsy report states no tumours of any kind were seen in various organs…’
‘Then why the hell was taxol administered?’
Sharma looked at Kharbanda and then back at Ajay. ‘Beats me, sir.’
‘Think, you idiots. Think.’
Sharma looked at Kharbanda once again, and this time decided not to revert his gaze to Ajay.
Ajay slapped the desk. ‘Unless…Oh God. Wow. You evil Mumbai police bastards. No wonder there are two autopsy reports.’
The last time Sharma was this confused was at a Friday evening get-together organised by his department, when the right-hand side of the menu had appeared irreconcilable with his dear allowance.
‘But, sir, I don’t see what…’
Ajay slapped the desk once more. ‘I get it now. How convenient for a beedi king to die through an overdose of a cancer drug. And quietly, the bastard who wrote the autopsy, quietly he turned taxine into taxol. Genius. If only you guys had spent this much effort in solving a goddamn crime…’
Sharma snubbed the castigation, principally because he couldn’t understand it. ‘Er, sir, I think we have cracked this one, too.’
Ajay sighed. ‘Yes, so that’s three done and dusted. Bloody slow progress, what. It’s approaching seven already…okay, Sharma, where were we. Ya, hop on to the serial…’
‘Yes, sir. The gruesome and shocking murder of the Hirwani…’
‘Oh to hell with the adjectives, Sharma. Just the case, the damn case.’
‘I am sorry, sir, but that’s how the report starts…’
‘Never mind how the Shakespeare who wrote your report began his story. They are all stories, aren’t they, all your stories. Start.’
‘Y-yes, sir. The murder of the Hirwani brothers. Three brothers, sir—20 April 2002…’
Ajay scratched behind his ear. ‘That’s the other thing. All these murders are quite recent in time. Anyway, go on.’
‘One was hit on the head with a hammer, one was strangled and the third brother’s skull was banged against a wall. All three found murdered in their office, here in Bandra.’
‘What office?’
‘Oh, didn’t you know, sir? Hirwani Builders. Second-largest construction firm in the whole of western India. Were building the 100-metre dam on the Krishna, sir. Twenty-thousand villages were…’
‘Yes yes, carry on.’
‘Sir, all found dead. The murderer nabbed after a month.’
Ajay gave out a mock cry. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘A man called Lakhanbhai—another builder. Case is pending in Mumbai High Court, sir.’
‘Good. You, Kharbanda?’
‘Yes, sir. Two cases: The A.B.C. Murders and And Then There Were None.’
‘Go on.’
‘Sir. The A.B.C. Murders: “Alice Ascher is bludgeoned to death in her shop. Next to die is Betty Bernard in Bexhill—strangled with her own belt. Then, Sir Carmichael Clarke’s skull is crushed in Churston. An urgent hunt is launched for the fiend, nicknamed as the A.B.C. murderer. Racing against the clock, Poirot tries to be one step ahead of this ruthless killer.”’
Ajay almost got up from his favourite chair. ‘Don’t tell me. The names of the Hirwani brothers. A, B and bastard C, aren’t they?’
‘Sir?’
Ajay brandished his arm like he was fencing. ‘Arey, their initials.’
SP Kharbanda felt a chill run down his spine. ‘Ganpati Bappa. I am getting goose bumps all over my body, sir.’
Ajay was shouting. ‘I don’t care about your goose bumps, man—the names.’
‘Amarmani. Brijmohan. Chimanbhai.’
Ajay punched the heavens. ‘Yes! ’
This time SP Kharbanda was wholly sincere. ‘Sir, you are a top-to-bottom genius.’
‘You bloody keep quiet, Kharbanda. All this was happening right under your bulbous nose and you couldn’t smell a thing. And because of you some bastard named Lakhanbhai is languishing in his langot somewhere in an eight-by-eight at Arthur Road.’
‘I know, sir. That’s three, no, six down already. This is so much more than we expected. We have to think carefully now, sir. Maybe, maybe use one disclosure for one promotion. Stretch it, I mean.’
Ajay broke a pencil in two. ‘Shut up. Shut up.’
‘Sorry, sir, I was just–’
‘Kharbanda, how can you even think like that, haan? Anyway, now’s not the time. So much has to be done to finish this whole thing. We have to first catch the real bastard who did all this. I bet you hadn’t even taken that into account.’
SP Kharbanda realised he had erred. He decided the best way out was to err some more. ‘Er…’
‘What er?
The knock on the door saved SP Kharbanda. Ajay asked irritably. ‘Yes? Who is it?’
‘Sir, chai.’
‘Finally. Two sugars as usual. So how many till now, Kharbanda?’
‘Six and counting, sir.’
Ajay tapped the new pencil on his forehead. ‘Arey. What about that Apte fellow? Why are we assuming you morons caught the right guy—the secretary, I mean.’
‘True, sir. In fact if my hunch is correct…’
‘You and your hunches, Kharbanda.’
‘Err…’
‘Where is that file you gave me, Sharma?’
‘On your table, sir. Sir, sir, first please read the message, sir.’
Ajay opened the file. ‘Quiet. Talking like a five-year-old. Hmm…this? This is the message?’
‘Ji. We had great trouble getting it from those Scotland Yard ban-chos. Finally, Interpol…’
‘Yes yes. Here—read it, Kharbanda. And slowly.’
The entire Kharbanda family tree had not done as much reading as SP Kharbanda alone had in the past hour. He now stepped forward and took the ragged sheet from Ajay’s hand and began reading.
Mumbai…Thursday, eleventh March, nineteen ninety-nine. This may take a while to reach you. In any case, you will be the first to learn of when, how and why, I murdered the ‘Pride of Bombay’ Mr Ramrao Apte.
Let me begin with the answer to the first question: when? This morning. Ten-thirty. Presidential suite. Hotel Taj Mahal. So, the complete answer to the first question: I killed Ramrao Apte on Thursday, eleventh March, nineteen ninety-nine, at ten-thirty precisely—I confirmed.
To the second question: how? I arrived at the Taj at nine sharp. I wandered along and got in among a bunch of tourists. Once inside, changed into an electrician’s overalls. Located the presidential suite. Waited for the room service to go and knock on the door. Mr Apte opened the door. A woman got out. I went up to Mr Apte, said the air-conditioning needed to be looked at. Waited for the room service to leave. Went in the bathroom. Played around with a few switches. Then called for Mr Apte: “Mr Aapte? Sir, is this what is creating the problem? ” He came in. The wire was around his neck in a flash. It was a matter of a minute. He was gone. I checked the time. Ten thirty. I then checked his pulse. Nothing. I waited for five minutes. Nothing. I went out the way I had come in.
So you see how easy it was. As easy as the way Mr Apte accumulated his billions. Now to the third and final, and perhaps the most important question: why? WHY? Because in the annals of corrupt Indians, the name of Mr Apte was written in gold. But it was not displayed; no, Mr Apte made sure of that…His name never came up—never seriously. It was whispered in cabinet meetings, murmured at evening parties, hinted at in underworld gatherings, gossiped at business lunches, muttered at police briefings, insinuated in the Vidhan Sabha, hushed in the Lok Sabha. At all of the above, it was also admired.
Mr Apte: combined wealth—nine thousand seven hundred crores. Unpaid taxes—twelve hundred crores. Fictitious companies—forty-two. MPs in the pocket—eleven. Houses in Mumbai—seventeen. Swiss bank accounts—three. Tie-ups with MNCs—nine. Mr Apte—instigator of riots; diverter of rivers; hacker
of forests; reclaimer of oceans; devourer of ground water; builder of dams; cauteriser of crops; squasher of the landless; selector of chief ministers; harbinger of wealth. Now dead.
Every little helps.”…The end, sir.’
Ajay felt a drop of cold sweat drag its way down from the back of his neck. ‘Bloody hell, I tell you.’
‘Nice, no.’
‘Shut up. Let me think, let me…Kharbanda, jot down whatever I say.’
SP Kharbanda snapped his imitation Mont Blanc, a Chinese fake—the shape was identical but the golden words ‘Mount Blank’ on the cap gave it away—from his shirt pocket and clicked the nib out. ‘Ready, sir.’
Ajay let his head fall back and closed his eyes, like he usually did at the barber’s. ‘This guy’s English is quite good for a start.’
‘Ji, sir.’
‘Despite your pronunciation.’
SP Kharbanda was about to write that.
‘Anyway, so can’t be that—who did you say, Sharma? That stall boy.’
‘Ji, sir. Bansilal said his name was Kalki musahur.’
‘What sort of a ban-cho surname is that?’
‘He was low caste, sir, a rat eater. Bansilal said he had run away from his village.’
‘Well, this is no village English.’
DSP Sharma was confident. ‘Not at all, sir.’
‘Also, looks more like a killing than a murder. You get me?’
‘Er, no, sir.’
‘This guy killed Apte not for his money or for business reasons. I think, I think…I…goddamn. Shit. Just see the rest of Apte’s friends here…’
SP Kharbanda was having difficulty keeping up. ‘Sir?’
Ajay sat up with a jolt. ‘Ban-cho. They are all rich bastards, aren’t they? But they are corrupt bastards as well. All of them seem to have cut corners. Someone sold mill land, someone else agricultural land, someone was building a dam. You see?’
SP Kharbanda was trying really hard. ‘Kind of, sir.’
‘They are all connected, Kharbanda. This guy is meting out his own justice to them.’
‘Ganpati Bappa.’
‘Yes. And I’ll tell you one thing. Our man can’t be a stall boy. What was the name? Kalki musahur. Unless he is not what he was all those years ago.’
‘Ji, sir.’
‘This guy is educated, refined, confident—can get close to these bastards. He doesn’t want their money. Doesn’t want their power or fame, either. Our man is a serial killer with a conscience.’
Some of the words were very new. ‘J-ji, sir…conscience.’
Ajay snatched the letter from SP Kharbanda’s hands. ‘Look. What does he mean by this, this last line, look. “Every little helps.” What is this every little. Obviously, he is polishing off these men. But who does it help? Who. Those mill workers? Those farmers? Every little…helps…ban-cho, why do I get the feeling I have heard this same line somewhere? Somewhere recently, too…every little…’
Ajay sprang up from his chair as though someone had shot him from underneath it. ‘No. No! Oh my God!’
SP Kharbanda was breathless in anticipation. ‘What, sir. Please tell us.’
‘But no. How can it be? Oh my God!’
‘How can what be, sir?’
‘Shut up a sec, Kharbanda. You know someone by the name of Akhil Sukumar?’
SP Kharbanda was taken aback. ‘W-what are you saying, sir? Your professor friend?’
‘Yes, my professor friend.’
‘C-can I ask you, sir, what exactly is in your mind? Maybe three heads are better than one—you only said so.’
‘Shut up. You remember our dinner yesterday, Kharbanda?’
‘Ji, sir. Very hard to forget.’
‘During our conversation, Akhil said the line, “Every little helps”.’
‘But, sir…’
‘No one. No one uses this phrase here. I have never heard it before in my life—and I have been out and about. No, it is too quaint, too English. And Aks—I mean Akhil, he said this when we asked him what had he been doing to set his house in order. I mean, he was distraught by this ban-cho country. Who isn’t, but his pain was special.’
SP Kharbanda was unsure. ‘If you say, sir, but…’
Ajay closed his eyes and slid on the chair. Ten minutes went by. Not a word escaped Ajay’s lips. To Kharbanda and Sharma, it appeared as though their boss had gone into deep meditation. In fact, it was anything but. The shock had to be absorbed, that too in public. Appearances had to be maintained. Choices had to be made, between friendships and stardom. And ten minutes was all it took for the mind to rationalise the discovery. It was all a long time ago, the friendship—all in the past. And besides, how many times did we met these past fifteen years? What if I hadn’t thought of writing him an email; what if I hadn’t met him at all last week? He has changed and so have I. So have all of us. Sad, but life goes on. What was that about time and tide…?
Ajay opened his eyes and looked straight at Kharbanda.
‘My God, Akhil, what have you done. Why?’
‘Don’t you worry, sir. We’ll bring in the professor and make him talk. And we know how to make people talk…’
Ajay threw the paperweight in SP Kharbanda’s direction. From now on, it was going to be a delicate balance between exhibiting one’s love for duty and friendship; and Ajay, a man of, by and for the system, had mastered the art.
‘You bastard, Kharbanda, you’ll do no such thing. I will skin you alive and…’
‘S-sorry, sir, just a thought, just a thought.’
‘Keep that thought to yourself, then. Akhil is my friend. He was my best friend, dammit. Yes, what he has done—and we aren’t even sure if he is behind all this—but if he is, then it is up to me to beat him at it, not bloody beat him, you understand? All what we have at present is circumstantial. We need more, something concrete.’
‘Yes, sir, of course, I am sorry.’
‘Now listen, all is not lost. Look for clues. Look, look. We’ll get to him, somehow…no? You don’t trust me?’
‘No no, sir, what are you saying. We have reached this far only because of you…’
‘And I don’t think interrogating Akhil would bring out much. In fact, it would take us further away.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
Ajay growled. ‘Yes, I say so sir, Kharbanda. If Akhil is responsible for all this, the very fact that he hasn’t hesitated one bit in being so close to me these past few days…well, you get me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So all we can do is wait. Maybe I’ll think of something. Set a little mouse trap for my clever friend. Leave it to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And listen—for the thousandth time, and more than ever—not a bloody word to anyone.’
‘Of course, sir. Sir, if I may. There is one important thing we haven’t discussed.’
‘Yes, tell me.’
‘Sir, the best-case scenario—we catch this killer, whoever he might be.’
Ajay was getting impatient. ‘Yes…’
‘Sir, that would be a calamity.’
‘What the devil do you mean calamity. I thought this was precisely why you two had your eyes bulging out for, isn’t it?’
‘No no, sir, you don’t understand. The cases.’
‘What cases?’
‘Have you thought about the cases, sir? Let me explain. All these cases are, well, solved. People…people now very high up, they have got medals for solving these very cases. Now you come along and you unsolve them and then solve them again. Well, what about those medals and promotions? All those people—what happens to them. You see? No, sir, best to leave it like this, on second thoughts. In my humble opinion, sir.’
Ajay waved a finger at SP Kharbanda. ‘Well, keep your humble opinion and your second-rate thoughts to yourself, Kharbanda. What would you prefer—becoming a DIG and a super-duper-star, or content with licking the boots of your incompetent third-rate officers? Haan?’
�
��Err…’
‘Bastards. All of you. Well, I don’t care what happens to the medal of a donkey. We have, we have done what they were supposed to do in the first place. We deserve all those medals that they have pinned to their stinking wardi.’
‘Sir, I get your point. Just that a lot of mud would fly…’
‘Then let it. Remember the best-case scenario—you would have jumped right above those very officers, well at least most of them. And I would have pole-vaulted to the bloody top, from where I can always keep an eye out for you two.’
SP Kharbanda’s heart skipped a beat in relief. ‘That is exactly what we wanted to hear, sir. Any trouble, you please keep an eye out for us.’
‘Of course I will. Now will you two stop stirring and ladling your khayali-pulaos? We have work to do.’
SP Kharbanda felt as though he had returned to work after a holiday at the spa. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And one last thing…Yes? Now who is it? Come in.’
The door flung open and a man rushed in, desperately short of breath. ‘Sir. Sir!’
‘Yes, who the hell are you?’
‘Sir, myself Gokhale. Inspector Gokhale, sir.’
‘Yes, whoever—don’t come barging in like this. We are busy, can’t you see?’
‘Sorry sir, but there has been a terrible…’
‘What?’
‘Sir, we heard on the walkie-talkie. Mr Vilasrao, our railway minister. He has been stabbed to death, sir. Stabbed to death! ’
Ajay’s cup dropped to the floor. ‘Jesus. When? Where?’
‘Just ten minutes ago, sir. In a train, no less.’
‘How did you get to know? Who told you?’
‘Around a hundred people, sir. They all witnessed it.’
‘What do you mean, man. It was in the open?’
Inspector Gokhale caught his breath. ‘Almost, sir. Mr Vilasrao was killed in a train, and his murder was being watched by these hundreds in the adjoining train, running parallel…’
Ajay was already running towards the door. ‘Shit. 4.50 from Paddington.’
SP Kharbanda was trying to catch up. ‘Ganpati Bappa. We have got him, sir!’
Ajay had by now reached the stairway. He hesitated, but then going down is so much easier than coming up. He yelled at the top of his voice: ‘Kharbanda! Sharma!’
The Rat Eater Page 33
