Patang (9 page)

‘I was wondering…’ Ananya hesitated.

‘What?’

‘Since you’ve already crossed two bus stops, I was wondering if you could drop me to my place. It’s on your way home…but only if it’s not too much of a…’

‘I didn’t cross any bus stops,’ Rathod said sternly, frowning.

‘Well, you did.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘There goes the third one.’

Rathod tried to look over his shoulder, but couldn’t see anything. The rain had increased in intensity, almost seeming like a waterfall outside the car’s windows.

‘I did?’ he asked incredulously.

Ananya smiled.

Rathod cursed his luck. He was now stuck with this journalist, who expected a drop to her residence. Blasted rain! He wouldn’t have let the girl into the car if it hadn’t been raining.

‘My name is Ananya, by the way. Ananya Banerjee.’

Rathod looked at her. The playful frolic between the raindrops and the windshield wipers now reflected on her face. She looked beautiful as she stared at him with those pretty eyes.

‘Yeah, hello,’ he said, dismissively, the frown still persisting.

Ananya smiled and looked outside. She gathered she was with a man who went out of his way to put up a tough appearance. She felt safe with him and, albeit for a few seconds, she forgot about the story.

‘And where exactly do you live?’ Rathod asked.

As Ananya answered, Rathod felt most uncomfortable, especially at the fact that the girl seemed to be completely at ease with him. He decided to avoid Remington Street. Soorti and his officers would be patrolling that area, and if they saw
his car and decided to have a chat he would be in trouble. A young girl in Rathod sir’s car! That would be the talking point for those miserable buggers for a long time. He didn’t want to become the butt of their jokes the next day.

Suddenly, his phone rang. It was Mule.

‘Sir! Yes, sir. Yes, they have taken the corpse for post-mortem. No, not yet sir…no ID…just a few tens and twenties and some loose change. No…no credit card…nothing…no… no letter either. Well, yes, couple of interesting things…there were some puncture marks on his…umm…sir, let me call you back in some time.’

Ananya was still looking out the window as Rathod hung up. The uncomfortable silence resumed. The rain lashed on. The wipers swished.

‘So, he was a drug addict?’ Ananya finally asked.

Rathod looked at her sharply. ‘Listen, Ms Banerjee, I am not at liberty to discuss an ongoing case with anyone, least of all a journalist. I offered you a lift only because I didn’t want to leave you out there in the rain in the middle of the night. I’m not in the habit of being made a fool of. Now, have I made myself amply clear?’

Ananya looked deep into Rathod’s eyes and said politely, with a calm smile on her face, ‘Yes, you have.’

Rathod concentrated on the road again, wondering why his heart was beating so fast.

12

‘Why do you think the letters stopped?’ The question was directed both to Rathod and the DCP. Mule had summoned the two of them to his bungalow. They were sitting in the shaded veranda, where breakfast had just been served.

‘Could be several reasons,’ said the DCP. ‘The media has already made a sensation out of him. Why take unnecessary risk by writing more letters? He got what he wanted.’

Rathod shook his head. ‘I don’t think that’s the reason.’

Mule and Singh looked at him curiously.

‘I think he’s afraid.’

‘Afraid?’ Uday Singh scoffed. ‘The man is carrying able-bodied adult men to dizzying heights and killing them in gruesome ways, for heaven’s sake! He’s not afraid!’

Rathod was staring at the rain outside the veranda. After a pause, he said, ‘I don’t think he carried those men up there.’

Mule and the DCP looked at him intently and waited for him to speak.

Rathod took a few seconds to arrange his thoughts and said, ‘I went up the tower crane at Sukhdeo Saran’s construction site myself. There’s no lift, just a climbing ladder that is surrounded by a protective railing, so that even if you slip and fall, you can grab on to the railing, or get caught in it.

‘The railing enclosure is cylindrical, almost like a capsule, and it is so small that it is impossible for anyone to have put a heavy body on their shoulder and carry it all the way up. No… the killer didn’t carry the body up.’

‘Yes!’ said Uday Singh excitedly. ‘Of course, it’s simple – he pulled it up with the crane!’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No. The crane was not being used that week. If the killer had used the crane, someone would have noticed. There are hundreds of people working at the site.’

Uday Singh’s enthusiasm seemed to disappear like the air from a punctured balloon. Even the reticent Mule seemed
confused. ‘What other possible explanation could be there? How did the body reach the top of the crane?’ he asked, frowning.

‘I think the victim went up the crane willingly, while he was alive.’

For several seconds, no one spoke. Only the sound of the rain was heard.

Finally, Rathod continued, ‘I think the victim knew the killer. In fact, I am willing to bet that he was helping the killer in the murders.’

Mule took a sip of his coffee and said, ‘Rathod, I must say that you aren’t making much sense right now.’

DCP Singh nodded. ‘Not one bit. Are you saying the victim helped the killer in murdering him?’

‘Let me explain,’ Rathod said calmly. ‘The victim from Sukhdeo Saran’s construction site has been identified as a man named Rudolph D’Costa. He was a drug addict. I spoke to his neighbours on Old Russell Street. They didn’t have anything nice to say about him. It seems he was a miserable wretch who often got into trouble with them. When I examined his body, I found a small tear in his jeans that matched a tiny piece of denim I had found on top of the Central Network Tower. My immediate conclusion on making this discovery was that Rudolph was the killer, but that didn’t make any sense. If Rudolph was the killer, then who killed Rudolph? Hence, I concluded that, while he was not the killer, he
had
been on top of the CNT. What could this mean? And then I thought, what if the killer was not acting alone? What if Rudolph was helping him?’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked the DCP.

‘Could be several reasons – drugs being the foremost,’ said Rathod. ‘An addict would do almost anything for the promise of a hit.’

‘Once again, Mr Rathod,’ the DCP said in a frustrated voice, ‘this is all speculation. The department works on the basis of proof.’

‘Which I have,’ Rathod said calmly.

‘Really? What proof do you have?’

‘The fact that Rudolph D’Costa worked as a garbage disposal man at the McArthur building!’

There was a stunned silence in the veranda of the commissioner’s bungalow. The rain fell, the sky growled. No one spoke for a few moments.

Rathod went on, ‘It was Rudolph who slipped the killer past the security guards at the McArthur building. They used the service lift at the back of the building, where there are no security cameras. Rudolph had an access card which could operate the lift. They rode it all the way up to the twelfth floor, and then went up to the terrace whose door was accessible to anyone in the building because of a technical fault.’

‘Yes, but that doesn’t explain something,’ said Uday Singh. ‘How did they get the body past the security?’

This time, it was Mule who said, ‘Rathod will correct me if I’m wrong, but let’s not forget Rudolph’s job was to dispose garbage, which included carrying bags in and out of the building. Am I on the right track, Rathod?’

‘Absolutely spot on, sir,’ said Rathod. ‘Security guards are supposed to check the large garbage bins as they are taken out or brought inside the premises. But often, especially with canteen waste, these bins have nasty odours, and the guards occasionally skip those checks. I checked with the forensics team – they’ve found traces of food waste on Father Patton’s corpse.’

‘My God!’ exclaimed Uday Singh. ‘Whoever the killer is, I have to admit he’s extremely sharp!’

‘Not just sharp…’ Rathod hissed, his eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘He’s a
genius
!’

13

All cities have their old nooks, hidden far away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Hardly anyone is seen in these places – a solitary nanny at best, pushing a pram and strolling in a leisurely manner, lost in her own thoughts, or perhaps a stray cat, leaping over a low picket fence surrounding one of the houses, before considering the road with caution and disappearing around the corner. Life comes to a standstill in these parts of the city – there are no sounds of bustling traffic, no cantankerous drivers and no cacophonic loudspeakers blaring out political propaganda. It is as if the neighbourhood calmly resides in one giant shade that is deceptively easy to miss.

In one such quiet suburb in Mumbai stood a beautiful house, nestled amid abundant greenery and large, lush patches of grass, now made more verdant by the monsoons. It was evident from the distance between the houses that the neighbourhood, if one could call it that, had escaped the prying eyes of real-estate monsters. The single-storied house looked like a dream home juxtaposed against an ominously overcast sky. The nameplate on the letterbox outside the compound read ‘Francis & Charlotte Miller’.

Inside, a frail old lady was seated across Chandrakant Rathod, who sat at the edge of his sofa and spoke to her with great reverence. ‘Mrs Miller, I’m sorry to disturb you. I have been told that you do not take visitors, but I’m sure you’ll appreciate the urgency of the matter.’

‘There was a time,’ the old lady replied softly, ‘when I used to love meeting people. This city used to be…different. People were helpful. They looked out for each other. They respected each other. And we…we earned a little extra respect, I guess… we were teachers, you see? We have always been…Frank and I…all our life. Our students loved us, their parents loved us, everyone loved us.’

Mrs Miller paused to catch her breath. She was quite old, and seemed weak and tired. A young lad, presumably in his late teens, with a cleft upper lip and dressed in a yellow T-shirt and jeans, stood leaning against the wall in one corner with his arms folded across his chest. An old man sat in an armchair by the glass window and stared into the void. He had an old shawl spread across his lap and had propped up his left leg on a low stool placed in front of him. He hadn’t spoken a word or moved an inch since Rathod had entered.

Mrs Miller continued to speak softly, ‘But then, things changed. Everyone started thinking of their own…and their own alone. No one seemed to care for anyone else. The city got into a hurry to expand itself, and it huffed and it puffed and it swelled up into one big mess. I don’t venture out into the city anymore. I can’t. I can’t stand all the noise, all the smoke. I remember a few years ago, we had gone into the city one day… for the funeral of one of our friends…and would you believe it? We couldn’t even cross the street! There were so many cars everywhere, and no one seemed to be civil and courteous anymore. I asked my husband – Frank, what happened? And he had held my hand and said – my dear, I guess we were left behind.’

Rathod listened patiently as the clock on the wall ticked away.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t bore you with all my stories.
Where are my manners? What was it that you wanted to speak to me about?’

Rathod said, ‘Mrs Miller, I spoke to the current principal of St. Joseph’s Boys in Vikhroli regarding an investigation I’m conducting. He told me to come see you. I’m given to understand that you used to teach there?’

‘Frank and I both did, yes.’

‘Do you remember Father Patton from your days at the school?’

‘Father who?’

‘Father Patton? Father Raphael Patton?’

‘Oh Raphael…yes I do, but he was Brother Patton then. Has he become…oh yes, I guess he must have. It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it? How is he?’

Rathod hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘I don’t know of his whereabouts, Mrs Miller, I just wanted some information about him pertaining to a case I’m investigating.’

‘Information about Brother Patton? Oh, he was a fiery young chap…quite unlike the other missionaries, really. Very enthusiastic, very ambitious, always trying to question things. In fact, now that I remember, he was quite close to Father Matthew, who was the principal at that time. Father Matthew…ah, he was such a gentle soul, a true saint, if you ask me. But he was going through a tough time during those days…poor dear. The school was…how shall I say…not doing well financially, you see? Father Matthew came to the common room during recess one day and told us that he was finding it difficult to pay our wages. I remember him hanging his head when he said this.

‘But we…oh…we all stood by him. The school had seen some glory days in the past, and the students were all shaping up to be wonderful young men. And that was good enough
for us. I remember how, that day, everyone went back to class with a smile.’

‘I believe that these financial problems didn’t last very long, though?’ Rathod asked.

‘They never do…such is the nature of hard times, you see? The board was able to raise some money by selling off a portion of the school’s sprawling campus. There were a few generous donations which came our way, too. And things became much better.’

‘This land…the portion that was sold off – do you know who it was sold to?’

‘That I wouldn’t know, young man. I was a teacher there, remember? It was my job to teach students.’

‘Of course,’ said Rathod, with an apologetic smile.

‘But I do remember Brother Patton speaking enthusiastically about selling that land. In fact, he had asked us to sign a…what do you call it?…a petition of sorts, recommending to the school board that the unused land be sold. He used to say that it was a sin to not use the resources that the Lord had blessed us with.’

‘And you signed this petition?’

‘Well, at first we didn’t, because the land had always been the school’s property, you see? And we didn’t want to part with it. It was all very green and serene. But Brother Patton kept talking in favour of selling it, and then after the accident, we were forced to agree… I mean, how could we not?’