Patang (6 page)

‘Kites!’ he exclaimed as his eyes sparked, putting an abrupt halt to Mule and Singh’s discussion.

‘Beg your pardon?’

‘He’s talking about kites!’

‘Kites?’

‘Yes.’ Rathod nodded as he handed over the two letters to the Commissioner.

‘Care to…explain?’ said DCP Singh.

‘The symbol at the bottom of the two letters is not a diamond at all. It’s a symbol that is used in Euclidean geometry, and it’s called a “kite”.’ Pointing to the symbol, he continued, ‘See here? Four sides. Two adjacent pairs. Both sides of equal length. In Hindi, you and I know it as a “
patang
”.’

‘But how can you be so sure?’ asked the DCP.

Rathod looked at Uday Singh. Clearly, he was not one of the brightest minds around.

Adopting a school-masterly tone, he explained, ‘The only play that the rains – the monsoons – can halt for sure is the flying of kites. My guess is that our killer has a child-like mind. He is fascinated by kites. I’m also willing to bet that he is a collector of kites. Even as he writes, he mentions several words and phrases associated with kites. See here – “soar high up in the sky” , “caught high up”. He cannot fly kites because of the incessant rain. And that’s making him very upset.’

Uday Singh looked incredulous. ‘And that’s why he’s killing people and hanging them up in high places, just like a kite?
That’s
your theory?’ he scoffed. Mule, on the other hand, was still looking at Rathod with a keen and attentive expression.

Rathod didn’t reply immediately. He seemed lost in his thoughts again. After sometime, he muttered under his breath, ‘At least that’s what he
wants
us to think…’

Mule and Singh did not hear what he said.

‘And why kill those specific people?’ Uday Singh persisted. ‘Why Sukhdeo Saran? Why Father Patton?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rathod retorted in an irritated voice. ‘I don’t know
yet
…’ There was pin-drop silence in the room for some time before Rathod finished, ‘…but I will.’

7

Ananya glanced at her watch and anxiously bit the top of her pen. It had been more than 15 minutes since the man had disappeared around the corner. She wasn’t sure what to do. Had the fellow taken her money and run away?

There was a cold, lifeless feeling hanging in the air, as if she was standing inside a machine. One or two isolated people dotted the compound, but they were all busy with something or the other. No one seemed to notice her.

‘Patience,’ she muttered to herself, biting her lips. ‘Ah, there he is at last.’

As the middle-aged technician blew his nose into his handkerchief with a grimace and walked up to her, Ananya hoped she could get the job done – this could be big for her.

‘I’m sorry, madam,’ the technician said. ‘The security guard didn’t agree.’

‘What? Didn’t you…you know…?’

‘I did,’ the technician blew his nose again, ‘but he wouldn’t take your money.’

‘But…’

‘And neither will I,’ he said, and thrust a couple of 500-rupee notes into Ananya’s palm. ‘It’s too risky.’

‘Wait…listen…’

An uncontrollable spasm overpowered the technician and he sneezed into his handkerchief. ‘Aah! God, this cold! Listen, madam, I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t go there. That’s not a place for a young lady like yourself. Go back right now before someone catches you hanging around.’

Ananya determined that the man was a sissy. And sissies had never talked her out of anything that she had made up her mind to do, ever. As the man walked away and disappeared around a corner, she took stock of her situation. It was true that she would stick out like a sore thumb in this place, but not if she could quickly get to the spot without anyone noticing her. There was bound to be an elevator of some sort here. She walked quickly towards the corner where sissy-wet-pants had been earlier and peeped around cautiously. She immediately jerked her head back. A security guard stood at a distance, blocking the gate at the end of the short passageway.

For the next 10 minutes or so she waited patiently, peeping around the corner every now and then. At last, her perseverance paid off. She heard a phone ring – a nice, catchy Nepalese song for a ringtone – and peeped around the corner. The guard was on the phone! After a few seconds, the guard, lost in his conversation, the manner of which seemed extremely flirtatious to her, wandered out of sight, scratching his groin ferociously as he went. Ananya immediately dashed towards the gate and climbed over it on to the narrow passage guarded by iron rails on both sides. Just as she hid behind an iron girder, the guard appeared again, staring at his phone with a content expression on his face, and resumed his position.

Sighing with relief, she walked up three steps to reach the metal platform and looked up.
This is crazy
, she thought. There was no way she could do it. But then she bit her lips and took a deep breath. If she could pull this off, it would be a killer scoop! She smiled at her own pun, looked at the rickety elevator in front of her, made up her mind and placed her palm on its gate.

‘Breaking into a crime scene is a crime in itself.’ A voice boomed from behind, startling the living daylights out of her. She gasped and turned around.

There were thick girders supporting the entire
structure – squarish pillars of iron and rivets. Even in broad daylight, there were parts of the base where the sun didn’t reach. The man came out of one such dark nook and stepped into the light. He was quite tall and broad-shouldered, but looked haggard and exhausted. He was wearing a faded white shirt, a pair of jeans and sports shoes.

Rathod looked at the girl standing in front of him for a few seconds. She was young and attractive. One could say her eyes were very pretty. For some reason, he felt as though she once had long hair. She didn’t anymore, though, her hair now carelessly tied in a little bun near the nape of her neck. She was looking at him intently.

‘Who are you?’ Rathod asked, adopting a stern expression.

Ananya was trying to think on her feet. The man in front of her had a towering personality with a voice to match. What could she possibly say that could justify her presence at the base of the Central Network Tower in the middle of a rainy afternoon?

‘You’re from the media, aren’t you?’ asked Rathod. The girl had ‘aspiring journalist’ written all over her. A notebook peeped out of her purse and it looked like a pen was permanently lodged in between her slender fingers.

Ananya realized she was in deep shit. Even people from the media had boundaries. She had just hopped over one.

‘Do you know how much trouble you could be in?’ Rathod continued, making his scary eyes look even scarier.

From long experience, not as a journalist but as a girl who grew up in a small town amid a hundred restrictions, Ananya knew that when someone asked her that specific question there was usually not much trouble that she could be in. Her jaw set in defiance, she said, ‘And who might you be?’

‘Police,’ Rathod said promptly.

‘Really? May I see some ID?’ Ananya said, as she crossed her hands over her chest, primarily to steady them. Her heart beat faster than ever, but she knew that this was the only path she could take now.

Rathod looked at the girl with some interest. She had clenched her teeth, and her sharp, feminine jaw looking beautifully chiselled. The stern look that she was trying to bring to her eyes was genuine. She was the kind of girl who would say that she wasn’t afraid even if she was. Defiance against all odds – such was sure to be her nature.

‘Hey you!’ Rathod clicked his fingers and called out to the security guard. ‘Come here and escort this woman out.’

As the guard came running towards them, wondering how on earth the woman had managed to get inside and how deep a pile of shit he himself was in, Ananya turned to Rathod and shouted, ‘Why don’t you show me your ID, huh?’ Rathod stepped into the service elevator, locked its gate securely and took out a key that the head of security had given him. He inserted the key into a slot and turned it. The motor revved up and he hit a specific button. As the rickety lift went up, he couldn’t help but look down at the young girl once more, who continued to fume. ‘He is
not
a policeman, and don’t touch me with those hands,’ Rathod heard her say to the guard, who was trying his best to escort the stupid
memsahib
out decently.

The ride up seemed virtually endless, and every single time the rusty elevator creaked, Rathod felt he was about to be hurtled into an abyss. As the lift reached the top of the tower and came to a jolting stop, Rathod thanked his stars, unlatched the gate and stepped onto the metal gangway. He walked up to the circular platform carefully and looked around.

For a few minutes, he acclimatized himself to the dizzying height and the strong winds. Then he started scoping out the place. What a nightmare it would have been for the forensics team – with the rain and all! Though judging by the way the murder was committed, Rathod doubted if the killer would have left any prints. No, this man seemed quite methodical. Sick, perhaps, but definitely not a loony. In fact, from the way the letters were written, the specific words that were used, the excessive repetitions, he would think that the letters were deliberately crafted to give the impression that the killer was deranged.

For the next half hour or so, Rathod examined the place thoroughly, repeatedly referring to a few photographs that were taken after the body was discovered. At one spot diametrically opposite to where the body was found, he found a very tiny, almost unnoticeable piece of worn-out fabric lodged in a sharply jutting screw. He went on his knees and examined the fabric carefully for some time. At first glance, it looked black in colour, but on careful observation Rathod realized it was a piece of blue denim, which now looked black because it was wet and weathered. Very carefully, with the help of a pair of tweezers, he placed the piece of denim in a small celophane pouch and zipped it. He continued to scan the area carefully, stooping here, going down on his knees there, examining the walls of the central pillar and covering the area in sweeping concentric circles, gradually and systematically moving outwards till he reached the railing.

Finally, he sat down with his back against the railing on the eastern side and looked up at the antenna from which the corpse of Sukhdeo Saran had been found hanging. For several minutes, Rathod kept staring at the antenna, unperturbed by the rain. To someone watching him, it would almost seem like he was
consciously soaking in the environment so that he could refer to it later. He had opened the windows of his mind to let the atmosphere of the place in – the sights, sounds, smells…even the touch of the rain lashing at his face. He absorbed everything like a sheet of blotting paper.

As he looked at the pole from which the body was hung, he visualized the hanging corpse swaying in the strong winds. ‘Just like a kite!’ he whispered to himself as he remembered Uday Singh’s words.

A frown appeared on his forehead.
How did the killer hang the victim from that metallic pole up there?
The pole was easily 30 feet higher than the circular walkway platform. And there was no way someone could have climbed it, because there was no foothold. No carves, no edges, no niches, just a smooth metallic pillar all the way up.

Rathod rose to his feet and began examining the pole from several angles. Soon, he realized that the killer had not gone up there at all. He had first tied the victim’s hands behind his back, and perhaps gagged him as well. He had then probably tied his victim’s feet together at the end of a long rope, and flung the other end of the rope over the metallic pole. After that, all that the killer would have had to do was to hoist the body of the victim to a height of his liking by pulling down at the free end of the rope, just like one pulls a bucket of water out of a well using a pulley. But that would mean tying the free end of the rope to something to ensure that the weight of the body did not drag the rope back over the pole. Rathod quickly looked at the photographs again. No, the rope wasn’t tied to anything at the platform level. It was tied directly to the pole. It almost seemed like the victim was hanged, execution-style, from someone standing on top of the pole.
Impossible! How had the killer done it
?

The more Rathod looked at the photographs and the metallic pole now hovering ominously over his head, the more confused he got. How on earth was the other end of the rope tied to the pole up there?

Rathod’s eyes were fixed on one specific photograph, and he examined it closely. It was a blurry image, but having worked closely with Mumbai Police for several years now, Rathod was in the habit of making do with whatever little resources were at his disposal. As he strained his eyes and focussed on the metallic pole in the photograph, two words escaped his lips almost in a whisper:

‘Axle Hitch!’

8

‘Do your employees have access to the terrace?’ Rathod asked as he looked around. He stood on the terrace of the McArthur building under his umbrella. The rain showed absolutely no sign of relenting.

‘Well, no, it seems there was a technical glitch. We have rectified it since then,’ said the man to whom the question had been addressed.

Rathod liked that the man owned up to his mistake. Retired colonel, now chief security officer (CSO) of McArthur’s India business, he was a no-nonsense man who knew that the best thing to do under these circumstances was to cooperate with the police.

‘What were you two doing here?’ Rathod turned around and asked in a straightforward manner.

The young fellow stole a furtive glance at the girl standing at a distance. Neither of them responded. The CSO cast them an
admonishing look. The decision had already been made – they were to be fired after the dust settled.

‘Yes?’ Rathod rudely insisted on an answer.

‘We…we came here for…a smoke.’ The boy was nervous but trying his best to summon an air of defiance.

‘In the middle of a rainy night?’ asked Rathod in a mocking tone. ‘Were you able to light your cigar?’

The CSO rubbed his nose and tried to maintain a grave face, even as a chuckle tried to find its way out. The boy turned crimson. He lifted a finger and retorted, ‘Look here, sir, you have no right…’