Dead in a Mumbai Minute (13 page)

‘We had been falling back more and more on our savings, but with three daughters to marry off, whatever we had finally ran out after the wedding of our youngest one last year. It has been getting harder and harder ever since he lost his job with Kimaaya ji. Finally it was down to one old producer who would give him small jobs from time to time. But he died so, for the past few months, there had been no work at all.’

‘Where are your daughters now?’

‘In their homes. They have married into families like ours only. By God’s grace, all are good.’

‘And your son?’

‘Finishing school this year. Now, whether he wants to go to college or not, he will have to find some work to support us.’

‘Mr Dhingre didn’t want to sell the house?’ With property rates being what they were in the area, the proceeds should have been able to buy them a comfortable rental and peace of mind for some time.

‘It is all we have to give our son. My husband decided not to sell it till there were no other options. It’s my son’s decision now. Since it is only the two of us, maybe he will rent this out and we can go live in some small room somewhere. He’ll have to wait till he is settled himself to get married since we can be of no help at all,’ she said, wiping her face once more.

‘Do you know why Mr Dhingre had gone to the island that night – and so late?’

‘No. He would never tell me such details of his daily activities,’ she said. Her mouth was a twist of withheld tears. ‘I think he just had enough and went to demand his due. We have no food on the table, eating only dal and roti, while that woman owes him her whole career, all her crores, all her houses. Couldn’t she do anything to help?’

‘He had tried to contact her before?’

‘Yes. Over phone. Always that Nimisha would answer and make some excuse or the other as to why Kimaaya ji couldn’t talk to him.’

A fact they had both neglected to mention. ‘Do you know why they stopped working together in the first place?’

‘He never told me, but he didn’t have to. I know how these women are. Kimaaya ji became too big for him. She said she didn’t need an agent anymore. Why pay someone when you keep it all to yourself?’

‘Is that it?’

‘Must be, no? In the past few months, sometimes, when he couldn’t take my nagging, he would shout at me and say that it wasn’t so easy going to her for help. Finally one day, a few weeks ago, he gave me some nonsense about how Kimaaya ji had been walking a dangerous road which he had objected to; that if he went to the media, her career would be over; and a disagreement about that is why he had to leave her in the first place.’

It didn’t sound like Dhingre had been referring to Kimaaya’s secret wedding – that could hardly be characterized as dangerous. ‘But your husband finally decided to go in person to Kimaaya.’

‘It looks that way.’

‘Did you notice any change to his schedule in the past few days?’

‘He had been leaving the house early in the morning, coming home late at night,’ Mrs Dhingre said.

‘Do you know where he was going?’

She shook her head.

‘Did your husband have his cell phone with him?’

‘Yes, he always carried it.’

And yet it wasn’t discovered on his person. Either it was lost or it was removed by the killer. Perhaps because it contained possibly incriminating evidence.

‘Do you have any papers, a computer perhaps, on which he worked?’

‘No computer, but he had some files where he would put things.’ Mrs Dhingre walked over to a rickety wooden chest of drawers and rummaged through it, pulling out a couple of cheap blue files. She handed them to me, and then pointed to a cupboard. ‘His older papers are in there. But he didn’t keep much. He would always say that in his line of work, it is about who is in your phone book more than anything else.’

‘He still kept a phone book?’

‘Yes. Old people like us can’t suddenly change our habits, you know. Cell phones and all are fine but you just can’t trust them, can you?’

‘Could I see it?’

As Mrs Dhingre went in search of it, I flipped open a file to find a collection of newspaper clippings. They were mainly about Kimaaya. The most recent, dated two weeks ago, was about the film shoot that Kimaaya had allegedly dropped out of.

Mrs Dhingre came back with the phone book. ‘Can I take these with me?’

Mrs Dhingre nodded. ‘As long as you bring them back.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘One final question, Mrs Dhingre. Did your husband have access to a boat?’

‘Boat?’

‘Yes.’

‘He comes from a family of fishermen.’

‘In Mumbai?’

‘Oh no! In his native village.’

‘How far is that?’

‘It takes five hours by train.’

‘Did he know anyone who owned a boat in Mumbai?’

‘No!’ she said, with a vehement shake of the head. ‘He left his village because he was so afraid of the water after he almost drowned as a young boy. Why would he go near a boat here?’

‘How is it that you get to dock your yacht here?’ I asked Shayak as I climbed on board with my bag.

‘One of the few personal favours I have asked for.’

We were at a small coastguard dock near Worli Sea Face, flanked by lines of warehouses.

‘How does the arrangement work?’

‘It is fairly casual. They like me, they give me space,’ he said with a smile.

‘How does it feel to be so full of yourself?’

‘Surprisingly good. Light, with all that hot air keeping me buoyant.’

‘You must have done someone important a favour to be allowed to park here.’

‘We don’t call it parking.’

‘Wasn’t the warehouse shootout a few days ago somewhere in this area?’

Shayak pursed his lips. ‘Yes.’

‘My friend thought she saw you there.’

‘Which friend?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes. And you know the rules about discussing your work with outsiders.’

‘It was a journalist friend who was covering the shooting. I neither confirmed nor denied anything. And how could I, when I knew nothing about it?’

‘Tell me about your meeting with Mrs Dhingre,’ he said.

I gave him the update. ‘It’s beginning to sound more and more like blackmail to me,’ I said finally.

Shayak’s face was impassive. ‘For now, we have to treat Viraat as the prime suspect. We need to establish his actions through the night. Apart from that, we wait and watch. We can’t forget that our primary role is to keep the island safe. Ajay has seen to it that the guests are all there for another day at least, so we’ll take the chance to speak to everyone while we still have easy access.’

‘I would also like to question Afreen again,’ I said.

Shayak’s phone rang and, as he took the call, I realized that it had been some time since we had hit the water and my stomach was doing fine even without the meds.

When he hung up, he looked pensive. ‘That was the surveillance crew. They have finished going through the security footage from around the time of death. We do have footage of Viraat exiting the house at about 12.30 pm, coming back soaking wet and carrying two bottles – one of whisky, the other our wine. ’

‘Nothing of Dhingre arriving at the scene?

‘No.’

‘Anything else?’

‘There was no unusual movement at the construction site during our murder window.’

So the question remained: By what vessel did Dhingre arrive at the island? And what had happened to it? And if Dhingre could arrive and be killed and not be picked up by the cameras, could our murderer also have been a trespasser that night? Could they have arrived together? ‘Maybe the key to this is figuring out how Dhingre actually got to the island,’ I said. ‘How easy is it to get hold of a boat in Mumbai?’

‘In addition to the navy, coastguard and police, plenty of civilians have access to them. Fishermen, tour guides, private yacht owners – the list is long.’

Physically checking all the boat operators would thus be highly impractical, even for an organization of Titanium’s girth.

My phone was the next to ring, and I was surprised to see the name that popped up: Terrence D’Costa, my old associate from Calcutta. I had a feeling I knew what this call was about, but I answered anyway.

‘Hello,’ I said warily.

‘Reema! How’ve you been?’

‘Good, good. You?’

‘Me too, me too. In your city, actually.’

‘Mumbai?’ I was still a long way from thinking of it as ‘my city’.

‘Yes. For a couple of weeks, probably.’

‘What brings you here?’

‘A case,’ he said. ‘Would be great to see you.’

‘Sure, sure,’ I said, trying to stay as non-committal as possible.

‘Free tonight?’

‘Er, actually I’m out of town.’

‘Let me guess – Maaya Island.’

That didn’t take long. ‘How about I call you when I’m back?’

‘Absolutely. Gosh, you took that job just in the nick of time. Big case like this. Good going, Ray.’

If you considered someone else’s murder to be your good fortune.

‘How’s it been so far?’

‘Terrence, you know I can’t discuss this.’

‘Right.’

‘I’ll call.’

I hung up. Shayak raised an eyebrow at me.

‘Terrence, from Calcutta?’

‘Yes, the detective who helped us with that video footage in Aloka’s kidnapping.’

‘I remember. He’s of Goan extraction, right?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘No reason. He’s pumping you for information?’

‘So it would seem.’

‘You know that comes with the territory, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you can expect it from your journalist friends as well.’

‘I can handle it.’

‘It won’t be their fault. They’ll feel enough pressure from their bosses to make that call, despite their discomfort, just in case you can throw anything their way.’

I fought back a growing sense of irritation. ‘You don’t know these people. How can you assume the worst?’

‘When you have done this for as long as I have, you’ll know. Big cases like this are not easy on anyone. Just be prepared.’

Thankfully my phone rang again, cutting that conversation short. It was my mother, and ordinarily I would not have been so happy to hear from her.

‘Darling, I saw the back of your head on TV!’ she squealed.

‘What?’

‘This coverage of the murder on Kimaaya Kapoor’s island! What were you doing there?’

So the TV crew Shayak had thrown out had run with whatever scant footage they had managed to get. ‘Ma, it’s work-related. I can’t talk about it.’

‘You are working on that murder investigation! How shocking the whole thing must be for poor Kookie!’

My mother was an actress herself, though on a completely different scale than Kimaaya. ‘I am sure she doesn’t remember me but I’ve met her, you know, at one of those film-festival parties. Such a charming girl. Very beautiful, of course.’

I listened to my mother rattle on about Kimaaya’s many virtues, putting as much distance between myself and Shayak as I could without going below deck.

Finally, I could take it no more. ‘How about I call you back, Ma? I’m in the middle of something.’

‘Okay, Reema. But don’t forget this time, okay? I worry about you. Try to remember that. It’s been ages since we spoke.’

‘No, Ma. It’s been about four days,’ I clarified, bidding a hasty goodbye.

Shayak gave me a smile when I returned to his side. ‘You should invite her to Mumbai. Show her around the office.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Why not?’

‘You don’t remember her trying to thrust me at you?’ For my mother, murder cases were all fine and well but not so compelling as marriage, despite the breakdown of her own. And she hadn’t been shy about showing her enthusiastic approval of Shayak during their one accidental meeting.

Shayak didn’t seem to be perturbed at having been treated like monsoon’s first catch of hilsa. ‘I do remember it,’ he said with a smile. ‘It was charming. She clearly recognizes quality when she sees it, which is more than I can say for her daughter.’

SIX

I
t was less than a thirty-minute ride to the island, and we were still five minutes away when I realized something was off. There were at least a dozen boats of various sizes and persuasions – speedboats, motor-powered dinghies, day cruisers – hovering about.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

‘The media circus has well and truly begun,’ said Shayak, his mouth a grim line.

‘What do we do?’

‘Nothing. Between Titanium and the police, there is a team of ten additional men to ensure they do not make it ashore. The police have also issued instructions to the media that, as a crime scene, the island is off-limits.’

‘Do you think that’ll stop them?’

There were camera crews, reporters, photographers. I tried to cover my face, but this time it was likely that my mother would be seeing more of me than the back of my head.

Shayak reached into a compartment. ‘Put this on,’ he said, handing me a floppy sun hat. He pulled on a baseball cap.

‘Keep your head down, wear your sunglasses. No matter what they say, do not respond. Not even a “no comment”.’

I knew Shayak’s zero-tolerance approach to the media glare for himself – and me. He had saved me once already in Calcutta. A low profile was critical to the work we do, he insisted. Rather difficult to maintain, I would imagine, with clients like Kimaaya.