Dead in a Mumbai Minute (4 page)

‘Devika had her evil way with me.’ My fashion-editor friend had very stern things to say about me coming to Mumbai from Calcutta with the monochrome collection I usually stuck with. She had dragged me, kicking and screaming, with my grateful mother’s credit card in hand, on a pre-departure shopping spree.

Despite my reluctance to party on an office night, when we headed out, I felt the day’s weight lift. There was a comforting buzz on the streets. The air of the possible. The promise of a clean slate. Apart from Sohana, I knew virtually no one in Mumbai. There was no one from my past to come knocking on my door. There were no expectations to live up to in the comfort of its anonymity. No warring parents to contend with. Here, at last with the job of my dreams, I had no more excuses.

‘I think Dhruv is bringing a friend,’ Sohana said casually.

And so it began. ‘A set-up?’

‘Not really,’ she shrugged.

‘But he’s single?’

‘Yup. And cute too.’

‘I’m not …’

‘Yes, yes, I know. You’re not looking for a relationship. You’re not ready. Blah, blah, freakin’ blah. This doesn’t have to be a relationship. It doesn’t have to be anything, if you don’t want it to be. Just thought it was time you lightened up a little bit. Got some action, you know?’

I thought of Shayak’s arms around me aboard his yacht as we closed the case in Calcutta. His fingers in my hair. How hard it had been to push him away.

I wasn’t going down that road again. A clean slate, I reminded myself. As squeaky clean as it could be. A no-strings-attached guy – a stranger, an age- and occupation-appropriate stranger – might just be the order of the day.

Thanks to Titanium’s network of resources and contacts, I was able to finish the background checks over the next two days without even leaving the office, and send them to Adlakha.

He called me in as he went over the documents. ‘These are very thorough,’ he said. ‘You can start with the Puri case now.’

And then he went back to what he was doing. I got the feeling that I had come about as close to a compliment as I would get with Adlakha.

I then headed off to meet Archana, who had asked to see me.

‘Want to get a cup of coffee?’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘Let me grab these papers and then we can head to the rec room.’

The recreation room was the only part of the Titanium office where it seemed permissible to even contemplate chilling. I had used it a couple of times for its café, and had also scoped out the foosball and TT tables, and the very adequate gym for future use. I was missing my kickboxing classes, and was planning to sign up as soon as I managed to save some money. Till then, the facilities here would do nicely.

It was well before lunch, so it was rather quiet. Archana walked me through some paperwork for the flat. Once that was out of the way, she asked me how work was going.

‘I might need some equipment for an investigation,’ I said. ‘But I was concerned about what happens if something gets damaged.’

The requisition forms carried all sorts of clauses and warnings. I was used to careful money management to make my small income go as far as possible in Calcutta, and now, even with a generous salary, I still hadn’t left my fears of penury behind.

‘I know what the paperwork says but overall, this is a pretty flexible organization,’ said Archana. ‘If there is one thing Titanium values, it is good faith. The systems are in place to keep everything running smoothly, nothing else.’

‘Good faith in a security company? Isn’t that an oxymoron?’

She smiled and shook her head. ‘Clients and employees are equally important here, and the crux of many of our relationships is trust.’

It sounded like an HR spiel to me, especially since I had had a peek into the incredibly intrusive background checks these allegedly trustworthy employees had been put through. But it seemed to be an ideal opening for the question I really wanted answered.

‘I’m sure I’ll hear more about the company’s vision when Shayak returns. Any news on when that might happen?’ I had tried calling him a couple of times but hadn’t managed to get through, and an email I had sent yesterday had also gone unanswered.

Archana gave a little shrug. ‘Sometime soon, I know. He called yesterday to ensure you were settled in. He wanted me to double-check that you didn’t need a place to stay. The guesthouse is still open for you.’

I shook my head. ‘One of my oldest friends lives here and she’s happy to have me till the place is ready.’

‘That’s fine, but for our office records, I am also required to keep your current address on file.’

Archana’s smile didn’t slip, and I both liked her too well and didn’t know her well enough to tell her to do something rude to herself. I jotted down Sohana’s address, because Archana’s politeness notwithstanding, I didn’t think I had much choice in the matter.

Back at my desk, I turned my attention to the Pratap Puri infidelity business, but found myself annoyed by both the case itself and by my conversation with Archana. To shake it off, I picked up the newspaper that had been sitting on my table since morning to read the big news of the day that had everyone talking.

Guns blazed outside a goods warehouse in Worli, in a very public shootout that has left two policemen and one civilian dead, and at least three assailants absconding.

The standoff lasted from 10 pm to 1.30 am on Thursday night, and was believed to be triggered by the confiscation of a drugs consignment earlier in the day. The gang is thought to have returned to try to steal it back from customs officials, an attempt that was foiled by the rapid action of the police. However, their efforts to apprehend the assailants may have been prevented by the superior on-ground knowledge and communication between gang members.

‘The shooters had an intimate knowledge of the port area and managed to make an escape, or conceal themselves expertly. The search is on for evidence. Based on accounts from those caught in the crossfire, we have descriptions of at least three, possibly four men. However, they were masked and positive identification may not be possible despite several eyewitnesses,’ said an officer on the scene, not wishing to be named.

Though the cache was yet to be fully inspected, it was believed to contain synthetic drugs such as oxycodone, ecstasy and ketamine, products that are gaining popularity in India and have a ready market abroad. Sources say that given the high street value of the pills – which sell for over ₹ 1,000 each – it may be one of the largest drug hauls in recent times, though they were not willing to reveal estimates of its worth.

It was all they managed to get into the late edition of the paper. Once again, I found myself pining for crimes bigger and better than the ones I had been dealt. With a heavy heart, I turned to my latest ‘Is she a Cheater?’ investigation.

I had heard of Pratap Puri, of course. Who hadn’t? He was almost a legend by the time I had finished college in the States, though he couldn’t have been more than thirty at the time. He had made a fortune in the first dot-com bubble, got out before the crash and had become a consultant for some of the biggest tech firms in the world. He had subsequently returned to India to devote his time to mentoring start-ups. He had been bitten by the environmental bug, and was concentrating on sustainable energy projects.

‘I’ve never believed in charity,’ he said in a recent interview. ‘I believe in making common-sense solutions for the underclass, from which they both benefit and profit.’

One of his companies had become a leading applicant for patents on small devices and appliances powered by the wind and the sun. The firm had worked on numerous innovations to power gadgets such as lights, fans, cell phones, tablet computers and blenders, completely off-grid. But unlike many other manufacturers that were using NGOs and rural marketing strategies to get goods to the people, Pratap Puri didn’t believe in doing anything on a small scale.

And then there was Pratap Puri, the party animal. It seemed like hardly a day went by when he wasn’t photographed at some benefit, show or party. He seemed a different man after the sun went down – one quite happy with a new group of friends by his side every night.

I moved on to the wife. She ran a fashion boutique with a partner, another society type. She too was seen prolifically about town, as the pictures revealed, though her parties seemed to be of a different nature: art exhibitions, concerts, balls – mostly for the benefit of some cause or the other. Poonam looked the part of a trophy wife, but she leaned more towards socialite-social worker. Though her husband professed a disdain for charity, Poonam had chosen it as her way to pass the time.

It felt like forever since I had worked on a straight-up infidelity case, but it couldn’t have been more than a few months. For too long, tailing cheaters was a part of my fabric and it wouldn’t be a problem getting back into the groove.

There was, however, one serious difference this time: I was sorely out of sync with the terrain. My knowledge of Mumbai was at best sketchy. I called Archana.

‘I need to keep tabs on someone for a few days.’

‘Ooh, sounds like there’s a scandal afoot.’

‘I don’t know Mumbai very well yet. Is there a driver I could depend on? Someone who knows all the roads, and won’t get all Schumi on me when I am following someone?’

‘All our drivers are fairly solid and experienced with most sorts of cases handled by Titanium, but there is one in particular who I think might be right for you.’

Half an hour later, I climbed into a black sedan, its windows tinted just enough to obscure.

‘Vinod Mansingh, ma’am,’ the fresh-faced driver announced.

‘Good morning, Vinod.’

‘Where do you want to go, ma’am?’ he said.

‘Nepean Sea Road,’ I said, giving him the address.

We crawled through the city to what even a newbie like me knew was one of the most posh addresses you could have in Mumbai. I tried to absorb as much as I could of the streets and landmarks. I wasn’t used to feeling lost, and I didn’t enjoy it. When at last we arrived, I found that the Puri residence was an independent home in happy white with green wooden windowpanes, palm trees tickling the side of the building, a lawn and a sweeping driveway. When you are a dollar billionaire – or at least a multi-multi-multi millionaire – you can afford a nice little house like that, in the choicest part of town, even when that town was Mumbai.

There was no parking spot on the street in this area, so I had no option but to get out of the car. If I wanted to keep an eye on the house, I would have to wait in the open – the worst possible situation – as it left me vulnerable, and was a disadvantage if I had to follow Poonam in a rush.

I strolled down the pavement lining the sea face across the street, and took in the sight of the water. It was dirty and stinky, but it was enough to lift this strip of Mumbai to beauty. I took a seat on a bench. An eye trained to catch mischief might wonder why someone like me might sit with her back to the sea, choosing the view of a line of buildings instead. I took out the camera I had taken from the Titanium cupboard of wonders, a small, tourist regulation point-and-shoot, to take pictures of the house, turning my attention to the surrounding buildings as well to avoid looking suspicious. I held it out and took a selfie.

In half an hour there had been no movement in the house, and I took a walk, always within sight of the premises, to the bhelpuri-wallah down the stretch and ordered myself lunch, with an extra dose of green mango.

‘Do the people in these fancy houses eat bhel?’ I asked the vendor as he chopped and tossed.

‘Some do. They send out their servants to get it for them. Most don’t bother with us anymore.’

‘Why do you stand here then?’

‘There are enough tourists who come here, like you. Try walking here in the evening or on the weekend, and you’ll stumble over people gazing at the stars.’

The stars of the screen, I presumed, not the sky. ‘What about that house over there?’ I asked. ‘That white-and-green one? It’s very nice.’

He shrugged as he minced onion with a sharp knife against his thumb. ‘Not from Bollywood. But they are also like all the others. Fancy car, fancy house. They are big people.’