Murder in Mumbai (14 page)

Chapter 14

In Andheri (East), not far from Chakala Junction, on the way to the historic but decrepit Buddhist-era Mahakali Caves, lies a Jesuit school for boys founded in the 1960s. Nothing unusual about that—except that behind this school lies a facility where old Jesuit priests from the city spend their retirements. Many are engaged in fund-raising for the church and for the schools and colleges they once ran, soliciting contributions from men with fond memories of both the camaraderie and the canings. Others spend their time in prayer, while still others spend their time bitterly contemplating the state of the nation. Fr. Casale was among the third group. He was born in France and came to India soon after the war, the only war that ever mattered for men his age. He'd spent so long in India, so long in Mumbai, that he had lost any vestige of a foreign accent. His fieldwork, conducted while still a young man, among the tribal population of the state, was now a prescribed textbook at the college level. He knew more about India and Indians than many who had been born in the country. And for all practical purposes, he was Indian—at least to the boys of the school who doted on him during his tenure as the school principal. Most important, Fr. Casale considered himself a keen judge of human character. And so when he saw Jay Ganesh and Fr. Sandeep Fernandes walk toward him, smiling, he knew almost immediately what they had come for.

Jay had called Sandeep earlier that morning. At worst, talking to Fr. Casale would be a dead end. At best, Jay knew that this could be his passport back to respectability, even more so than the case of the burglaries, which had seemingly stalled once he had handed over the evidence from the videotapes to Gaikwad.

Fr. Sandeep had agreed to take him to meet the old priest in Andheri. Jay would meet him in Bandra and they would head there on Sandeep's motorcycle. The ride was uneventful. Even the traffic was compliant.

“Do you think the old man will be willing to talk?” he asked Sandeep.

“It depends on the father's mood,” Sandeep replied. “You know he's always been cranky—it's just worse now that he's older.”

“Should I take him anything?”

“You mean a bribe?” Sandeep said, blurting out the words and laughing. “He's a priest, not a government servant.”

“Of course, I didn't mean that,” Jay replied, not knowing what he actually meant. “I was thinking more like a box of chocolates or fruits or cake or something.”

Sandeep thought for a few seconds.

“Get him Scotch.”

“You're joking.”

“No. He told me how much he misses it. Because of his age and his health, they don't let him have any anymore.”

Jay didn't need to be told twice. They stopped at a liquor store on the way. It was like all old liquor stores in the city. There was a storefront where men—and it was always men—lingered, and a counter behind which sat two men—typically two men—immersed in newspapers. The customers would bark out orders and the men would take turns conjuring up the liquor from the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind them. They mostly sold quart bottles, which were priced relatively modestly. The country has a complicated relationship with alcohol. While Hindu myths typically tell of gods drinking and becoming intoxicated, and alcohol consumption is common, it is still viewed with a certain amount of disapproval, a disapproval introduced perhaps by Victorian-era morality that has never left the country, though it's been more than sixty years since the British left. A few states around the country even have a prohibition against it.

Jay walked up to the counter.

“Black Label?”

The clerk handed him a box from under the counter, passing it to Jay as if it were a precious commodity. In many ways it was. Johnny Walker Black Label is arguably the most popular whiskey in the country. For many years, it was a coveted gift from overseas. Jay paid for his purchase, wondering if he could expense it (it would be a tough sell with Manisha), and walked back to the bike.

“Put the bloody thing in your bag for God's sake,” Sandeep said. “I don't want you to enter that place with whiskey and get everyone in trouble.”

* * *

Fr. Casale was sitting in an oversized leather chair engrossed in the cricket game on television when he sensed someone approaching. He looked up to see Fr. Sandeep and someone else. He immediately knew it was Jay Ganesh.

“We'd better go inside to my quarters,” he said with resignation, even before they greeted him.

The quarters were small—a room with a bed; a bookshelf weighted down by the volumes it carried. Jay perused the titles, which showed off the tastes of a Renaissance man.

“You'll have enough time for that later,” the father said. “Tell me, which batch were you?”

“Ninety-one, father,” Jay replied. “Same as Sandeep.”

Fr. Casale nodded. “I remember your face, but couldn't place the year. So, tell me, what are you doing now?”

Jay told him about his work at the
Tribune
and the burglaries he was working on.

“And you had that unfortunate incident with that dirty rag, right?”

“Yes, father,” Jay replied, surprised that the old priest was so plugged in.

“You're probably thinking how an old coot like me knows so much,” the father said, smiling. “But it's all here,” he said, pointing to his brain. “When the mind goes, everything follows.”

“Reverend father,” Sandeep said. “Jay has something for you.”

“Of course,” Jay said, extracting the bottle from his backpack.

“Ah,” Fr. Casale said, with a twinkle in his eye. “Just what the doctor ordered—just not my doctor.” He looked at Sandeep. “Bring three glasses from that shelf.”

Sandeep did as he was told. Jay looked at his watch. It was before five. He was not a Scotch drinker. He seldom, if ever, drank this early, but he was not about to say no to his old headmaster.

Fr. Casale poured a peg for each of them.

“Drink up, boys,” he said. “For the old saints.”

Down the hatch it went. Jay wished he'd eaten more for lunch.

“Now tell me why you've come.”

“Father,” Sandeep began, “we've come about Kabir Khurana.”

“Ah, yes. I somehow knew you would be back when you asked me all those questions the last time.”

“Father,” Jay said, “I'm working on a story about the murder of the American executive Liz Barton. Khurana featured prominently in her life. I just want to know if there is something about him that should be known.”

Fr. Casale contemplated what he was being told. He took a sip of the drink and stared into space. He shut his eyes as if he were taking a nap. He was silent. Jay looked at Sandeep and wondered if he should say something else. Sandeep gestured to him to keep silent.

“Yes,” Fr. Casale said, finally breaking his silence. “Kabir Khurana, a nasty young boy. I remember him well.

“I was a young priest. I'd spent the previous few years working among the Bhil tribes and the church then sent me to Bombay—of course, it was Bombay then. Not Mumbai. What a great city it was then. They sent me to the school.”

The priest seemed wistful for a time gone by.

“We were a boarding school at that time. Of course, there were some day scholars, but it was mainly a boarding school. Khurana's father was in Delhi. His mother was ill. It was decided that the boy would be a boarder though he only lived a few miles away from school.

“At first, he was like all the other boys: cricket, football, studies, school. But when he entered his teenage years, something changed. He was caught leaving the school compound at night—normally it was an expellable offense, but his father pulled the right strings with the cardinal, and the boy was allowed to stay.

“Then there were reports that he was going to the red-light district at Kamathipura. We had to have a word with the family then. He was taken home for a week and came back with bruises. He vowed not to do it again. The school told the father that the boy could not falter again.

“But of course he did. I remember clearly. The police came to the school one night and asked for him. He was a minor and so we refused. We asked them what they wanted with him. They said that he'd visited the brothel again and had brutalized one of the girls there. She was on the verge of death. The principal at the time, Fr. Austin, immediately called his father. The boy was summoned. He didn't deny it. Didn't show any remorse. In fact, when they asked him about it, he was said to have smiled. ‘The bitch deserved it,' he said. Of course, that was the end of it.”

“What do you mean?” Jay asked.

“We had to expel him. He was sent away to boarding school in Britain.”

“And what happened to the girl?”

“It's sad, but who cares what happens to an unknown prostitute? They say she survived and went back to Nepal. But who knows? No one sees them come into the city, and no one ever sees them leave.”

“What about the police?”

Casale snorted. “That's a gullible question given that you're a crime reporter. India might have been a newly independent nation with much idealism, son, but human nature is human nature. Corruption and evil have always existed and they will always exist.”

“What do you mean?” Jay asked.

“The Khurana family paid money to keep the whole thing quiet. Years later, Kabir Khurana returned to India, took over the family business and made a name for himself. His father of course died, and is remembered as a hero, which in many ways he was.”

“Do you think he is still capable of such acts, father?” Jay asked.

“We all are,” the father replied. “Has he kept the beast leashed? It's possible. Has he let it escape? That's possible, too.”

* * *

Fr. Sandeep dropped Jay off at his car. The meeting with Fr. Casale had been more fruitful than he'd expected. But what did it really prove? The public has a short memory—and the Indian public more so than most. When Khurana returned to India, the matter was forgotten. His insouciance was gone, replaced by a new composure and confidence. It was as if those years overseas had trained him to be what he was born to be: a Khurana. With the reputation he enjoyed today, people would be only happy to forgive his youthful indiscretions, if in fact assault can be categorized as an indiscretion.
But then,
Jay thought,
we tend to forgive and forget the trespasses of our rich and powerful.

Still, all he had was a bit of gossip. The question was whether he could make the case that Khurana still had that temper and did, in fact, kill Liz Barton. But then what would the motive be? They were close. It had been suggested that they were lovers. Was it a tiff that went awry? Jay knew he was trading in theory and no newspaper in its right mind would print such flimsy allegation, especially against someone with an army of lawyers ready to pounce on any aspersion that might be cast in his direction. Certainly, during his own meeting with Khurana, the magnate had been magnanimous, even charming. Which reminded him, he needed to ask Janet what happened to those pictures. He hadn't seen her in a few days. Was she avoiding him after that evening? Jay brushed the thoughts aside. He could only deal with so many problems at a time and compared to his nonexistent love life, these problems seemed far more solvable.

* * *

He decided to take his problem to Manisha. What would she say about his meeting with Fr. Casale? At best, something might come of it. She might tell him to investigate it a little more. At worst, she might dismiss it for what it seemed to be: gossip—salacious and juicy, true, but gossip nonetheless.

His phone rang.

“Jay Ganesh,” he said absentmindedly.

“It's Shakil,” came the reply.

“Hey, brother! What's up?”

“I have something for you.” His tone was serious. Jay knew at once his friend was not in a mood for pleasantries.

“Tell me.”

“Come over,” Shakil said. “Come home for lunch.”

“For lunch?”

“Yes. For lunch. Come for lunch.”

Jay looked at his watch. It was nearly evening. Far too late for lunch. He knew Shakil had diabetes and a lunch this late was out of the question. His friend must have something else for him, something he couldn't discuss on the phone.

“I'll be right over.”

“Come via work and pick me up,” Shakil said.

“Which shop are you at?”

“Chor Bazaar.”

“I'll leave right away.”

* * *

Jay tried to speed his way through the by-lanes of old Bombay. They were narrow and crowded. Men sat idly by the sides of the street. Kids played. The usual army of retired folk and laid-off mill workers peered over their balconies. Jay evaded bicycles and scooters as he raced toward Shakil's shop. The traffic came to a sudden halt. A cow was sitting in the middle of the street, slowly chewing grass, oblivious to the new India's frenzied pace. It was less common now than when he was growing up, but cows in the middle of the street still brought traffic to a standstill. Because Hindus regarded the animal as holy, people waited until it decided to move. Some impatient drivers blared their horns, hoping this didn't mean they would be relegated to whatever corner of hell reserved for impudent acts such as theirs. A couple of men walked up to the animal and tried to lure it toward the side of the road with the promises of more grass. Jay wished he had a scooter or motorcycle. He could have bypassed the animal and continued. He cursed the cow. He cursed the traffic. He cursed religion. The cow finally relented and moved. The city returned to its familiar frenzy.

* * *

Shakil Shah sat alone at his shop engrossed in a newspaper.

“What's up, boss?” Jay asked him.

Shakil looked up at him and nodded his head. He did not smile.

“So what do you have for me?”

“Let's get in the car,” Shah said.

Jay did not argue. They got into the vehicle.