Bhendi Bazaar (7 page)

‘’Tis required for identification purpose; we’ll return it today itself,’ Hina explained. The other two men, Nripesh and Om, though giants in size, sat and watched the girls meekly.

The flibbertigibbet teenagers tamely dug into their bags and handed over the passports to Pathak. Hina exchanged a fleeting look with him and wrapping her arms around Margaret, Deborah and Viviane took them into the flat.

Like a hotel, the anteroom opened into a long, carpeted corridor that connected all the four apartments on the floor. They passed a few rooms, but all of them were shut. The rest of the flat was equally tawdry. The hallway had two recessed spotlights dimmed for muted lighting. Apart from the two recessed spotlights dimmed to darken the place, there was no other light. The girls, questioning themselves if they grew mushrooms here, held hands and followed Hina, who escorted them to the end of the corridor and pushed open a door on the left.

‘Come in.’

The room was no less pretentious than the anteroom and hallway. Small but ostentatious, the fifteen by fifteen room had a double bed in one corner, which had been made up for guests, with two pillows and a few cushions carelessly scattered on it. The stench of stale tobacco, it seemed, permeated throughout the flat. The little window, covered by thick red curtains that matched the ones in the reception hall, was shut to prevent the disgusting odour from escaping. A little cupboard — or makeshift wardrobe, with a shiny veneer, was kept near the window. On the opposite side of the bed there was a dressing table; a door was ajar to an inadequately lit room, which, by the hum of the little exhaust inside, gave away its identity. The door was the only cavity on this wall opposite to the bed, which, otherwise, had floor to ceiling mirrors.

Jesus. Were they supposed to stay in this? ‘Could we see other rooms?’ Margaret asked. ‘Why?’

‘This seems to be reeking…’ Margaret twitched her nose and glanced at the younger two, who nodded in acquiescence.

‘Oh, Cinderella wants ‘nother room?’ The tone was part derisive, part acerbic. ‘Well, if you don’t have three clean rooms, we’re okay to share.’

There was a short shrift from Hina.

‘Excuse me. Could we speak to the manager please?’

‘I’m the manager. ‘Tis the only room available for tonight. Okay?’

The girls looked at each other. Viviane, still holding Margaret’s hand, pressed her fingers hard to convey her acceptance.

‘We’ll share it. But, could we have a better one if one’s available later?’ Another short shrift.

‘Have your menses started?' Hina abruptly inquired looking at the three. 'Yes. But why do you ask?'

The old boiler carried on regardless. 'Is any of you
on
now?

The girls might have learnt English and learnt a bit of Indian and Irish accents to get past in Delhi, and the Immigration at Heathrow, but they weren’t taught this ugly patois. The three exchanged a fleeting look.

‘Is any one of you on the rag now?’

Intimate questions as these had no reason to pop up; all the girls required was a place for a nightcap. And they had paid for it. Hina’s expression had metamorphosed, from the smiling lady they had first seen in the anteroom, to an intolerant prison wardress.

No.

No.

No.

'You lost you cherry yet?' Hina looked at Viviane. ‘No.’

'You?'

Deborah shook her head.

'And you, troupe leader?' She turned to Margaret. 'Listen Hina, I think...'

Finding Margaret’s tone a bit assertive, Hina, without a warning, swung her right arm and placed a tight slap across the girl’s face. Before the other two could grasp what happened, Hina held Margaret's hair in the fist, yanked them and placed another slap, with the left hand, this time, on the other cheek. 'Don't ya fuckin’ tell me what ya fuckin’ think, you brainless bitch,' she yelled, loosening her grip and pushing Margaret to the floor.

The sudden furore resulted in consternation — Viviane fell down and passed out; Deborah broke down into tears and let out shrill cries. The blaring voice, the boisterous noise prompted other doors in the corridor to open, to check, but were quickly shut back as the other busy — or frightened — residents saw Pathak rushing down towards the end of the passage followed by his flotilla of four.

‘What the hell is going on here?’

‘This fuckin’ bitch needs a lesson, she needs to be shown her place. Why don’t you guys give her some? It’ll help taming the other two too.’ Hina walked away from the centre of the scene and slammed the door shut.

The men looked at Pathak for consent, and he nodded without wasting a minute. The four stooges instantaneously collected Margaret from the floor, threw her on the bed as Pathak stubbed the cigarette in the empty ashtray nearby. Then, he, in presence of the men, Hina and the two striplings, moved towards Margaret, grasped her poncho and violently tore off the front.

The time for being bold, for her friends, had ended. ‘No, please no,’ Margaret screamed and struggled to get past him.

The fingerprints of the two slaps rendered by Pathak were to remain on Margaret's cheeks for the next two days. He grabbed her trousers and pulled them down as though they were several sizes too large; the bra and cotton panties followed. Unashamedly, he unzipped his jeans and took out his phallus. As if on cue, Patel walked to the side of the bed and held Margaret’s legs apart. If Pathak hadn’t put his big hand over Margaret’s mouth, the scream, when he shoved himself into her, would have, indeed, woken up a corpse.

Deborah and Viviane, tears in eyes but silent with trepidation, watched the monster tear their friend.

Margaret was befuddled to the point of unbelieving; unbelieving all this was happening. Happening to her? It was definitely a nightmare, it will soon get over she kept telling herself, pinching herself, pressing her lips hard to endure the pain. Why, then, wasn’t she waking up? She didn’t want this dour nightmare to carry on. Little did she apprehend that this horrendous ordeal wasn’t getting over. Not anytime soon. Not ever.

Five minutes later, Pathak withdrew. ‘She’s shit hot, guys. Take her.’ Patel got on top of her and after him Om, Nripesh and check-shirt.

Even scavenging pimps had a pecking order. Pathak mounted Margaret again.

‘You will be a free fuck for every visitor tonight. If you do anything stupid, you will live to regret it,’ he dared Margaret, then looked at the other two. ‘And you two — watch her getting fucked.’ He zipped up and turned to Hina, ’Give these commies a razor to shave their fucking twats. I don’t want spider's legs straying out of their underwear. And get them some scanties too.’ He walked out with his flunkies.

'Did you follow what Pathak
bhai
said?’ The three girls nodded in acquiescence.

And from now on, call me madam.' Hina smiled before they heard the door slam and locked from the outside. She was gone too.

Five cash-rich, disgusting, foul-smelling, rutting men came into the room through the night. Deborah and Viviane witnessed hirsute arses plunging into their unfortunate, compliant friend, the men squeezing her breasts, pinning her down. All tricks, in their drunken state, twaddled something unintelligible when they found the other girls watching them shag Margaret.

Did they want to shag the other two? Would they come for them later? Were they next? Even the inexplicable, inaudible questions in men’s expressions frightened them. Fear sired angst, but it was impotent anger, the one that could only frustrate.

Margaret was broken by the morning. She had no words, no tears left. When she tried getting up, it was an insurmountable chore to drag her bruised, lifeless body. The other two were woeful by the wretched experience they had gained second-hand. An incessant bad dream. They had to wake up. Had to get away. Somehow. Alas, it was the first of many surreal nights, the first of every night for the rest of their lives.

SEVEN
2007

Sheesh Mahal
, a 1950s construction in which Rita resided, was on St Andrews Road in Bandra. To offset the ascent of the posh Pali Hill, uneven pillars, that made it appear like a crouching dog, supported it. The exterior appeared derelict, like many other antiquated buildings in Mumbai that had endured the taxing weather and the unforgiving tropical monsoons for over half a century. The interiors of most of the apartments, however, were totally in disagreement with the façade. The
paan-wallahs
and
chai stalls
in the neighbourhood notwithstanding, it was one of the most desired, most affluent suburbs of Mumbai. Some of the occupants had hired interior designers to do up their apartments. Rita had bought a fourth floor 2BHK apartment — a Two-Bedroom-Hall-Kitchen (irrespective of the minuscule living space it offered, it was referred to as a “Hall” by Mumbai estate agents) — almost five years back; she had had to relinquish two of her ancestral properties in Goa in lieu. Unlike some, she had self-decorated the place in minimalist fashion. Plain and sparse. The only striking feature being that she had got one of the longer walls of the rectangular living room, the
Hall
, painted in sea blue, which made it stand out from the other three walls that were in ivory. She had been in this apartment for a few months and had started feeling at home in Mumbai. It was a comfortable place. She kept most of the hall seating on the floor with lots of cushions thrown around to give it a cosy look.

Rita had a predilection for Jim Beam — a taste she had inherited from her father who was a guzzler: he drank for the taste, he said. But he drank when he was happy, he drank when he was sad, he drank in company, he drank when he was lonely. He drank when he had a reason; he drank when he couldn't find one. However, he was always in control, not an alcoholic. With his bar overflowing, he had little idea when Rita had nicked her first sip. And then regular sips. Jim became a soulmate; unusual for a woman in India to indulge in whiskey, but then she was atypical in many other ways. How many women DCPs did they have in the Indian police force? She had also retained her father's old turntable and vinyls, and paperbacks, mostly crime fiction, which she inherited from her mother. Some she had read, but most of them waited to be read some day. Karan, besides being a lover, had been a great friend till the American bug bit him. Happy memories. And she wanted them to stay that way.

Though there was a touch of sadness in her happiness, at times, she knew the feeling would pass. Contrary to her façade of a tough cop, she was, at heart, a woman. Not even a tomboy. A woman who still had teddies on her bed, wore skirts and dresses when she socialised, though not on the job. Trousers, jeans were her ensembles at work. They were easy to manage and besides, being one of the few women at Crawford Market, she wanted to downplay the woman card.

You couldn't see the sea from Rita's apartment, but you could get a whiff of the salt in the atmosphere, and you could hear the waves crash sometimes. Like they did this morning, so loudly as though the sea was thirsty, wailing for a drink. The breeze, besides providing the chill through the window left ajar, was also blowing the chimes. The jangling woke her up and she looked at the bedside clock. It was half past five. She grabbed the pillow and snuggled between the sheets to catch a few more hours of sleep, but it wasn't to be. The telephone ring was hardly avoidable. Ex-directory phone buzzing at this hour. Ominous. She knew it.

It was Vikram. Already at the scene of crime. Another homicide. Male. At ITC Grand Maratha Sheraton.

Rita groggily peeked at the bedside clock to see the time again. It was 5:33. Dragging herself out of the bed, she wrapped herself in a gown, put on the cafetiere and walked straight into the shower. The coffee was brewed to perfection by the time she was out. She pressed a cupful and poured it into her thermos glass; she preferred it hot to the last drop. She put on denims and a white shirt, and packed a spare shirt and lingerie in her bag. Who knew when one might need a change? This was going to be another long day. Grabbing a pale-blue corduroy jacket to cover the holster under her left arm, she looked at the clock: 5:48. She was getting good at it. She rushed out of the building, unlocked her Gypsy and throwing the switched-off rotating red beacon on the hood civilly drove out of the parking lot. Once out of the residential area, she switched on the flashing light and siren. As she got on to the Western Express Highway, she put the vehicle into second gear and floored the pedal. The wheels screeched once and then she took off, leaving everything else behind her. The traffic at dawn was minimal.

The place was crawling with cops. And, ah, the piranhas of media, too, had arrived, but were made to crowd behind the yellow ribbons the police had tied to cordon off the area. Rita beckoned a constable, gave him the keys of her Gypsy to park and instructed him to call her driver to report at the hotel this morning.

'This is the second murder in the last four days, DCP Ferreira,' someone called aloud from a distance. The male voice came from the direction where the journalists were parked. She could hear the cameras going. What were they clicking? Pictures of her ass?

The second murder was exactly in the same vein of Lele's murder at Versova a couple of days prior. Only this time, the murderer had been a great deal more aggressive, slitting the prey from the groin till the navel. The entrails showed. Rita could see the punctured large intestine from quite a distance. Blood, almost blackened, had coagulated. Gruesome. Rita was impressed that none of those present seemed nauseated. Police officers were expected to have a button to spray local anaesthetic on themselves to put out the pain and grief when attending to such ghastly scenes of crime. As she put on the surgical gloves, she counted her blessings for not having eaten anything this morning, or she would have surely retched.

'Samir Suri, age 35. Dead for more than seven, maybe eight, hours now. Arrived on a delayed Indian Airlines flight from New Delhi last night. Survived by his wife and a three- month-old daughter. They have been informed. His wife is booked on the seven-thirty flight from Delhi,' Vikram sheepishly recited Samir's resume.

'I can see that the Forensics have almost scanned the room, so we'll know if the bastard has left any evidence this time.' Rita looked around.

'One empty tumbler, six empty bottles of miniature Chivas, and as many bottles of soda. The Forensics think the remaining contents of his drink were emptied in the sink. They could smell the alcohol. In any case, they have unscrewed the tubes under the sink and the tub — where, presumably, the murderer washed this time — and taken them to the lab.'

'Same guy?' It was a fluid question Rita knew.
Which guy?

'The MO is identical, ma'am. He has cut the body deeper and slit a larger surface area though. And also removed the penis from the body. They've turned the room upside down, but cannot find it, so it's safe to assume he's taken the penis with him.'

'Motherfucker,' Rita murmured softly, but well within Vikram's earshot. She didn't care. Her mind had segued into another direction. Didn't the wounds in the groin symbolise castration, emasculation? There was a fraught silence for some time, the one that pierces the ears with fear.

'The search team found a lipstick under the bed. But, it could well be nothing. It could belong to any guest who stayed in the room, in the past, who inadvertently dropped it and it might have rolled beneath the bed. According to the management here, the beds are made regularly, but the complete vacuuming of the carpets, where they move the bed, just happens on Sundays. Hence, if it was dropped any earlier than...' Vikram ran through the days in his brain; it was only Tuesday, '...a couple of days it should have definitely been removed. I've asked for the guest list for this room for the previous two nights. We'll check with everyone who stayed here if they lost a lipstick.'

Rita did not respond. Seconds lazily dragged, as she stood spellbound.

'He, Samir Suri, was to meet the EA to the CM today morning for breakfast, at the hotel. We've sent a message to CM's office and I am very sure the Commissioner would know about this before we get to office.'

'Thanks for that update. I'll need to call Mr Joshi immediately.' Vikram nodded, said nothing.

'I am sure the hotel has CCTVs. Ask them for all recordings of last night, and all recordings of the preceding week. Actually, all the way back till they overwrite them, ask them to hand over everything they have. I don't expect someone this clever — who obliterates all evidence so earnestly — to walk into a hotel without due preparation and kill without having explored ways of getting away. He would have surely recce’ed the place.'

Vikram nodded instructions on his yellow pad.

'Reconstruct Samir's movements from the time he first planned this trip to Mumbai. All telephone records, anyone visiting his office, everything...we need a lead. I want to know every little detail about this man. All past girlfriends, all friends, business associates and any business rivalries. Everyone who knew about his visit to Mumbai, I want a report on each one of them. Check all alibis, place plainclothes officers around their houses, record and report movements. If Delhi police suspects anyone of having a motive, however remote, to finish this guy, we need to know ASAP. Anyone hesitates in obliging, we should be informed rightaway.'

'Yes ma'am.' Vikram scribbled again. 'I glanced through the call lists on his mobile phone before they took it away along with all his other personal effects to check for any latent prints. He had received two calls from the time he landed in Mumbai. Both from an unknown number. The first call lasted...' Vikram consulted his notes, 'one minute forty-seven seconds, and the second one merely thirty-one seconds—'

'The second call, what time was this second call received?' Vikram looked at the pad again. 'At 9:57 last night.'

Rita scanned her watch and did the maths. 'It's past six now. If Samir died more than seven hours ago, it should be between 10 and 11 last night. So, this call could, in fact, have been minutes before the killer arrived in this room...and Samir, we assume, was waiting for the visitor and opened the door, as there are no signs of struggle. You see where I'm heading with this, Vikram?'

'It appears like watching the replay of Adit Lele's murder.'

'Yes. The killer calls from an international or unknown number — both untraceable; he is known to the victims, who provide him access.'

'But, if Samir was expecting the killer, why was he naked in bed?'

'Was he gay?'

'He was a married man.'

'Bi?'

Vikram didn’t say anything.

'You know, that is what worries me too. Both men were naked like they were waiting for a fuck.' Rita was candid in her expression. Not sex, not woman. Fuck. 'Though everything else points out it should be a male: the MO, the forensic report from Lele's murder told us that the only other person who
could
have been with Lele in the hours immediately preceding or following his death was a male. In any case, if I had a gun, I could make anyone do anything I wanted, including making them strip. Don’t you think?'

Vikram reflected on the surmise and nodded. 'What about the lipstick they found under the bed?'

'I guess we'll have to wait till we get the list of all previous guests in this room from the hotel authorities and check each one of them.'

'Sure ma'am.'

'We'll get him, he has to leave some trace behind.'

Well said Rita, wasn't it Edmond Locard's theory that professed, "
everywhere you go, you take something with you, and you leave something behind
?" That every contact left a trace? Then what about so many unresolved crimes around the world? If all killers left evidence behind, what was the hitch? Oh, and by the by, who was Jack the Ripper? Traces,

Edmond and Rita, could be annihilated; they were always eradicable. The room was still neat. It had been cleaned up well. Purged. If there had been a struggle between the murderer and Samir, the room showed no signs. Evidence? No chance.

An even larger horde of news-seekers had gathered in the last forty minutes. Some morsels of the gossip had surely been fed to the reporters; having tasted blood, more vultures had flocked in. Bigger names. Larger cameras. Television crews adjusted their lenses. Two identical murders in four days. It surely suggested a potential to make big news. Heck, this could make a money-spinning chronicle.

As Rita and Vikram came out of the hotel, Rita noticed a bleary-eyed Anita Raizada. She might have apologised to Jatin, and may have befriended the young inspector who let his brain slip between his legs for an evening, but Rita was careful not to acknowledge her presence. She had no desire, or patience, to get entangled with the press at this point. Surely, the media would be informed, but later. Not now. The barrage started nevertheless.

“Is it true, DCP Ferreira, that Adit Lele and Samir Suri were murdered by the same person?”

“Why aren’t the police arresting the killer?”

'You tell me where he is and I'll go and arrest him right away,' Rita retorted, gave a social smile and briskly walked to her Gypsy that had been brought to the portico by a uniformed PC. Vikram opened the door for her, then ran around and took the driving seat. They could hear the loud questions through the rolled-up windows as they drove out of the exit.

-----------------------------------