Patang (5 page)

As sports-shoes peeped around the corner, he saw white-shirt turn left after crossing a hair-cutting salon and vanish again. Sports-shoes coughed softly a couple of times and walked briskly towards the salon, where he was promptly joined by two other men, both of whom looked at him inquisitively. Sports-shoes casually gestured in the direction in which white-shirt had turned. One of the two men pulled out a walkie-talkie wrapped in a polythene packet from under his jacket and mumbled into it. The drizzle was picking up, but the men didn’t care. Sports-shoes took out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and tied it on his head. Then he started walking towards white-shirt, who seemed to know his way through the labyrinth of lanes and by-lanes, while maintaining a safe distance from his mark. The two men with walkie talkies maintained a similar distance from sports-shoes.

After at least a dozen more twists and turns in the maze, at a crossing of lanes, sports-shoes suddenly lost sight of white-shirt. Confused, he rubbed his chin and looked here and there. The two men ran up to him.

‘What happened?’ asked one of the men.

‘He was here just now,’ muttered sports-shoes. The frown on his face deepened.

‘So?’

‘So what? Go find him!’

The two men dispersed in different directions. Sports-shoes walked briskly across the corner and asked an old man, who was
sitting by his window and watching the rain with a grim face and an ancient transistor in his hand, ‘Chacha, did you see a man in a white shirt walk by with a black umbrella? No?’ He hurried ahead, asking a few other people in the houses and shops on the way. Finally, a kid from a group of children pelting stones into the dirty open drain nearby said, ‘There he is!’

Sports-shoes dashed like a cheetah in the indicated direction. As he turned a corner, he caught sight of white-shirt, who had abandoned his umbrella and was now running through the muddy lanes. As sports-shoes sprinted in pursuit, he screamed at the top of his voice, ‘Mhatre! Venky!’

The two men joined him from two different lanes and gave chase. Although both men seemed heavier and stouter than him, they overtook sports-shoes in a matter of seconds, catching up with white-shirt and tackling him from behind like rugby players. As everyone fell in the mud in a huddle, white-shirt’s beige briefcase fell on the ground roughly and tumbled ahead for a good 20 to 30 metres before its lock gave way, throwing wads of cash, several photographs and a strange-looking gun fitted with a scope and a silencer into the muddy ground.

Several minutes later, as white-shirt was being cuffed and escorted into a police jeep, the man in the sports shoes untied the wet handkerchief from over his head and wiped off some of the mud from his face and neck with a grimace. He looked tired and not as happy as he should have been on apprehending a notorious contract killer. The two men with him, on the other hand, were overjoyed. They walked up to him to shake his hand, and one of them said, ‘Sir, Pepsi?’

Sports-shoes rubbed his throat with the handkerchief and shook his head.

‘What’s the matter, Rathod Sir, you don’t seem very happy?’

Chandrakant Rathod smiled a wry and tired smile. He patted both of them on their backs, muttering ‘Good job’ to both and walked away. As he was passing by the jeep, the contract killer screamed at him rudely, ‘Hey, asshole, you think you are smart, huh? I’ll be out before you reach home tonight. And then I’ll come for you and your family.’

Rathod stopped in his tracks and considered his next move for a moment. Then, very slowly, he turned around and made his way back to the jeep. The two plain-clothes officers had heard the killer as well and came running to the jeep with their cold drink bottles. ‘Shut your mouth, motherfucker!’ they shouted.

The contract killer brought up some phlegm from his throat and spat on the ground near Rathod’s shoes. The two policemen began slapping him around, but the killer continued to look at Rathod with eyes that were spewing venom. Rathod seemed unperturbed. He took a few steps towards the killer, watched him for a few seconds and extended his hand towards the man’s throat, revealing a thick gold chain that the killer was wearing.

‘Galyat sankali sonyachi
(A gold chain around your neck)!’ Rathod remarked in a sarcastic and amused tone.

The two policemen laughed like hyenas.

‘Hei pori konyachi
(Whose daughter is she)?’ he asked with a mocking smile.

The killer was literally frothing at the mouth as the two policemen laughed uproariously, falling over each other. Rathod continued in a soft yet menacing voice, ‘By the time I reach home tonight, these men would have made you give up your Babul’s name, although I already know whose lovely daughter you are!’

The two policemen boarded the back of the jeep and continued to laugh, one of them even offering his cold drink to the killer. Rathod walked back to his Gypsy, a loan from the
Mumbai police, off the books of course. As he drove it out of the locality and hit the crowded streets, his thoughts drifted. He couldn’t help feeling jealous of the two sub-inspectors, who had been so pleased with their coup. How easy it was for some people to find happiness and satisfaction, how simple it was to please them! The man had practically handed himself over to the police – he had made so many mistakes, done such an abominable job of covering his tracks, bragged so frequently at bars while drunk, that Rathod was surprised it had taken the Mumbai police more than six months to arrest him, that too with his help. The department, he thought, was being filled up with dangerously incompetent people, who only knew how to speak to the media and use fancy terms by rote to hide their idiocy. Things used to be different earlier. Under Satham Sir, for instance. Small thievery and petty crimes used to be solved by his aides. Satham Sir himself would crack the big cases, which required the usage of brains. For instance, the dowry homicide case in Chembur, where everyone was certain that the man and his family had killed the man’s wife… Aah, that had been one hell of an interesting case. Satham Sir stuck on to the case like an irritating fly, and finally nabbed the victim’s brother from a seedy hotel in Akola nine months after the case was officially closed. Now, he was a man with intellect. These days, the Mumbai police was only interested in crushing the underworld. If only they knew that the underworld was just a shape-shifting concept that could neither be crushed nor wished away; it would always exist.

As Rathod manoeuvred the busy streets, a memory of the Professor flitted through his mind, and he smiled, a smile of pride, as he fondly remembered those times. For more than a year, Rathod had lived and breathed the crimes of the Professor.
He had studied all his MOs, all his limericks, his handwriting, the clues he left behind, over and over and over again. People around him had started saying strange things about him – like how he was almost behaving like a man possessed. Bumbling idiots! What did they know? Rathod had pure, unadulterated fun while catching the Professor. It had been a superlative exercise of the brain. A puzzle like no other. A game whose rules only the two of them understood. It was almost as if he could pre-empt the Professor’s next move, and he in turn could pre-empt Rathod’s. And then, suddenly, just like that, he was gone. Locked away in a cell in a prison that even Rathod wasn’t aware of. Rathod remembered how, along with a sense of satisfaction, he had felt a strange emptiness after his capture. Many a times, he had had the urge to meet the man, just to see him behind bars, to enjoy the feeling that it was he – Chandrakant Rathod – who had put the genius in there.

Of course, he wasn’t allowed to, for official reasons. But that didn’t take away from the fact that he had often sat in his empty apartment and thought of the imaginary conversation he would have with the Professor if he could meet him now, relishing the look on his vanquished adversary’s face.

Those were the days. Now, he had been reduced to running around, chasing petty criminals who only had brawns and no brains at all. He sighed. If only…if only he could come across a case that truly challenged him!

Rathod wondered why Senior Inspector Tushar Wagle had called him. He hadn’t heard from him in several months. But he knew that if Wagle had called him, it meant that the commissioner wanted to see him. Perhaps for another stupid corporate espionage assignment for some industry magnate. Rathod shook his head in frustration. There was a time when he
used to like Mule. Even Satham Sir used to speak very highly of him. But once a man has spent enough time in this pathetic system, it is bound to corrupt him. Rathod thanked his stars he was not on the rolls of the police. No one could force him to take up a case. At the same time, he also cringed at his own inability to say ‘no’ to any case that was offered to him, however drab and straightforward the case may be. Perhaps he was searching for something…perhaps he was waiting for that one case…that
one
case that would pose the ultimate challenge! Then again, perhaps he was merely hoping against hope.

As he stopped his vehicle at the parking lot of the police HQ, his train of thought broke. Walking up to the door of Mule’s room, he glanced at his watch: 2.30 p.m. He was spot on time. Punctuality – another vanishing trait in today’s world. But not in his.

Mule rose from his chair and welcomed him warmly. There was someone else in the room who Rathod knew only from newspaper photographs.

‘Come, Rathod, come…how are you?’ Mule said as he shook Rathod’s hand heartily.

‘Fine, sir,’ Rathod said with a smile.

‘Have you met Uday?’

DCP Singh rose with some reluctance and shook Rathod’s hand.

‘I haven’t had the good fortune yet,’ said Rathod, ‘but, of course, I’ve seen your…photographs.’

Singh caught the almost unnoticeable tinge of sarcasm in Rathod’s voice, as did Mule, who tried to make the situation lighter by saying, ‘So, tell me, what will you have? Your usual coffee? Extra milk, one spoonful sugar?’

Rathod smiled and nodded. DCP Singh and Chandrakant
Rathod stared at each other in a battle of who-blinks-first for a few moments, before the Commissioner, having noticed this, quickly made the necessary arrangements for coffee over the phone, hung up and intervened politely.

‘Well, Rathod, what’s keeping you busy these days?’

‘Nothing much really,’ Rathod said in a dismissive manner. He didn’t want to discuss what was keeping him busy.

‘I heard you are tracking Shinde’s man?’

‘Yeah, we got him,’ Rathod said casually.

‘Really?’ Mule seemed pleasantly surprised. ‘When?’

‘About an hour ago,’ Rathod stated matter-of-factly and began looking around the room, his eyes scanning the bookshelves.

‘That’s excellent news!’ exclaimed Mule, exchanging a loaded glance with the DCP.

Rathod didn’t comment and looked straight at the Commissioner with a why-am-I-here expression. Uday Singh didn’t like it at all. Firstly, he wasn’t happy that he was being compelled to take external help on a case that had been assigned to him. It wasn’t a good thing for his career, something he guarded very closely. Moreover, this man was nothing like what the Commissioner had described: he looked unkempt, with an unshaven, muddied face, his shirt and jeans wet and his hair a mess. He also didn’t seem to have any respect for the Commissioner’s stature. DCP Singh developed an instant dislike towards him.

‘Well,’ said Mule, who knew that Rathod disliked wasting time over small talk. ‘I’m going to come straight to the point. Have you heard of the builder Sukhdeo Saran?’

Rathod shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His guess had been right – it was another corporate espionage job!

‘Yes, I know about him…but sir…’

‘Are you aware that he was murdered a few nights ago?’

‘No,’ Rathod was surprised. ‘I was working the streets for the last three–four nights.’

In a brief presentation of facts, Mule explained the murders, and showed Rathod copies of the letters. He also told him that word had spread in the media. ‘I was telling Uday about how you caught the Professor…I think this case will interest you. What do you think?’

Rathod didn’t respond. He was lost in the letters. Holding the two sheets in his hand, he rose from his chair, comparing the two and muttering to himself, ‘Play…play…and rain…rain stops play…soar…why soar?…soar, really high…’

Mule and Singh glanced at each other and waited patiently as Rathod paced up and down the room.

‘Work, work, work…what does…well yes, of course…“all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”…yes…dull boys…’

Rathod turned to Mule and said, ‘This Father…what was his name?’

‘Patton. Father Raphael Patton.’

‘Was he a priest?’

‘No, a teacher. He was the principal of St. Xavier’s School in Bandra.’

‘I see…and where was his body found?’

‘On the terrace of an office building.’

‘Which office?’

‘McArthur and Co. They have a BPO office in Vikhroli.’

Thinking out loud now, Rathod muttered, ‘A place where everyone just works and works and doesn’t play. He’s obviously talking about the office. But why there? Why kill him at the school and then go through the risk of carrying his body to a
secured building, that too on the other side of the city? Why not leave the body there itself?’

Mule looked at Rathod and said, ‘More interestingly, why take it all the way up to the terrace?’

‘Well, obviously, this man has a fascination for heights,’ Rathod replied. ‘The Central Network Tower, for instance, is the highest point in Mumbai. He took his first victim all the way up, and a few days later, he did the same with Father Patton, only in a different location. But why heights? What is he really telling us?’ Rathod looked at the letters again.

As Mule and Singh offered several theories and possibilities, the sound of their voices faded out of Rathod’s mind. He let himself drown in the two letters, almost as if he was trying to communicate with the man behind the words. His eyes moved from one letter to the other, from one word to the next. Then his gaze seemed to fix on the diamond symbol that the letters had been signed off with. He looked at it intently for almost a minute. Then, a few words caught his attention again, and this time, he looked at them in a new light, almost as if they were popping out of the paper they had been written on. ‘Play… rain…soar…high up…dull boy…’ A scene flashed in his mind, a scene he had seen just a few hours ago in the by-lanes where he had nabbed the contract killer. A group of children playing and frolicking in the rain.