Bhendi Bazaar (12 page)

Viviane delivered her baby in the summer of '86. On the morning of July the 12th. It should have been the happiest day of her life, but it turned out to be exactly the opposite. JD didn't turn up that night. She was woken up in the middle of the night by Pathak and asked to follow him to the anteroom where a crowd stood watching the telly. A hush dominated the room as she came in. Doordarshan had its midnight bulletin of local news being read:

"Mr Jay Desai, son of Mr Bir Desai, the noted firearms dealer, has been shot dead earlier this evening. A not-yet-identified man pumped six bullets into Mr Jay Desai at close range as he sat in his car on the traffic light in Nepean Sea Road, less than a kilometre away from his family residence. Police suspect the hand of a rival gang in the killing and are investigating..."

"Good. Now the bitch has to peddle ass once again..."

Viviane overheard someone saying. She went numb. Nothing registered in her brain after that.

Life always played one-sided games, didn’t let people negotiate. Now, it had taken
him
, and left
her
in this hole. If only it had been the other way round. Viviane would have hardly minded dying.

Sadly, the Angels of Death don’t negotiate.

TWELVE
2007

The letter lay on his table, a plain brown manila envelope marked "Urgent, Private & Confidential", and so it found its way to the top of the pile ready to be the first thing he picked up when he — the owner, CEO and Editor-in-Chief of NEWS of the DAY, Amit Narang, arrived at his desk at the Nariman Point HO of his publication that morning. And that was precisely what he did. He picked up the envelope even before he sat down, tore it from the side and took out the single A4 sheet it contained. As he dropped the envelope on the desk and rested his fat backside on the black leather swivel chair, he realised there was something more in the packet. He upended it curiously and glared at the SIM card that hit the desk with a tiny sound. He picked it up and looked at it perplexedly, before returning his gaze to read the letter he had cast aside.

"Dear Mr Narang,

I am confident that, by now, you have destroyed the only prints Mumbai Police have been looking for. The SIM card enclosed with this letter is the one I had used to call Samir Suri before I killed him. I have another one which I had used to call Adit Lele. Do you want it? If yes, then I want your newspaper to cover the story of these murders closely. There are more to come. Many more.

Remember, I am watching you. If you do not do something within the next 24 hours, I will be forced to go somewhere else. Even worse, you could be next. Now, you wouldn't like that, would you?"

The letter was unsigned, typed in the Ariel font and printed on a laser printer.

Amit Narang stared at the paper like it was some UFO. He was forty-three, and looked more like the janitor of the building than the owner of a newspaper, if one could call his rag one. He was a rare specimen of enthusiasm married to dazzling incompetence, powered only by fortune, and some fortune that was. K.R. Narang, his father, was in the league of the most corrupt politicians India had ever had, which by no means was an easy feat in a developing country plagued with corruption. Despite being expelled from power years ago, the father had enough clout that no one dared to mess with him or his son. Amit Narang's own moral compass didn't point north either: illegitimate money, insincere sycophants for company, immoral friends, iniquitous lifestyle. Illicit activities and businesses more than funded his standard of living. And the newspaper gave him a licence to carry out his carefree existence. Since no one dared to challenge him, he published news, articles, flaming editorials for kickbacks. He shaped careers, destroyed people, dug for dirt if he disliked someone, and veiled miscreants if they helped him or bribed him. And now it seemed that even the heavens were happy with him for sending him this opportunity for a scoop, and then some. He looked at the phone, picked it up, and then put it back in the cradle. He needed to reflect. It was no good telling everyone; he needed to speak to someone who could think. Fuck, this could be a goldmine. He read the letter again and looked at the SIM card. When he looked up, he could see Anita Raizada through the blinds on the glass of his office. Why he hadn’t fucked her till now was the first thought that crossed his depraved mind. He remembered that it was, irrefutably, the only reason he had hired her a few months ago — a young girl with no experience or references, she had come in a tight short skirt and a deep décolletage and during the course of the interview, as they evaluated her, he had imagined her in his bed. How had he forgotten? Well, the time was ripe to test her now. If he did her a favour, shouldn't she reciprocate? Isn't that how the world worked? He picked up his phone and dialled his secretary. 'Send Anita in.'

'May I come in?' Anita knocked and peeped in.

'Oh yes. Sit down. Coffee?' What was wrong with this girl, why was she covered from head to toe now?

'Yes. Thanks.'

Narang called his secretary and ordered coffee. 'I have a scoop for you Anita, but only if you agree to the terms. I can guarantee that if you take up the challenge, and my advice, this could be a career defining case.'

'What is it?'

'Excited already?'

'Oh yes. You know I came here right out of college and you accepted me, for which I am indebted. Now, you're trusting me with a case you think is momentous, I am honoured.'

The coffee arrived. The secretary poured the brew into the china and left as quietly as he had entered the boss's office.

'Good. I know you are hungry for success and I like such people. It reminds me of my own youth when I was struggling.'

Hardly, you fraud, Anita wanted to spit out, knowing well that Narang never had to labour for anything. 'I know sir,' she agreed politely.

'Good.'

Without another word, he passed on the letter he had just received, and watched her read it. Fuck, she was gorgeous.

'Is this...really? Oh my God, is this…' Words poured out of her mouth staccato. 'Yes. The killer wants to be in touch with us, and I can let you cover this case for our paper.'

'I am really flattered. I'll do anything to take up this case.'

'Ah...you can't just say that, you have to show me that you mean you'd do anything.'

'How?'

Was she daft? Did she keep her eyes and ears closed at work? She'd been here two months now. She should have known what the boss liked, by now. Was he supposed to explain to her what he wanted in return?

'It's like this Anita. I will get in touch with Mumbai Police and ask them to cooperate on your story from now on. If the killer is in touch with us, they better listen to our demands.'

'But why us, sir? I mean he could have gone to any newspaper or television channel in Mumbai and —'

'Because we are the best.' Narang had lied for so long about the excellence of his rag that he had even deceived himself too. 'Don't you agree?'

'Of course I do.' Anita responded like she was anticipating the question. 'Where is the envelope, sir?'

'You can call me Amit. Why do you want the envelope?' He looked around at his desk and held out the same to her.

'For the postmark.' Dickhead. She left the qualifier out of the sentence. Holding the manila envelope at the corners to save for the forensic lab whatever her moronic boss had not smudged already, she examined the stamps carefully. Churchgate. 'It was posted from Churchgate yesterday.'

'Wow...'

Anita managed a smile. How sharp was that? That was the first thing any person with an IQ over a hundred would have scanned for, but Amit Narang, she knew, was gifted with a brain the size of an ostrich's.

'Okay, now let's see if you want to take this story. I’ll speak to the Crime Branch officers — do you know who's handling this case?'

'DCP Rita Ferreira.'

A woman? Narang let his surprise pass. 'Who's her boss? I'll speak to her boss, it always puts pressure on the investigating officer. Find out who this Rita Ferreira's boss is and come back, I'll call him. These fucking coppers are no better than dogs. If the bone doesn't work, the stick does.'

'Could I speak to Mr Vikram Joshi please? No, I do not have an appointment, but I need to speak to him urgently. I am Amit Narang, Editor-in-Chief of the NEWS of the DAY. Yes, I'll hold on.' Narang winked at Anita to convey that his authoritative tone had worked.

'Joint Commissioner Joshi here, Mr Narang. What can I do for you?'

'This is regarding the recent murders in Versova and the ITC hotel, Mr Commissioner.'

'Oh, my junior is in charge of the case. What is it about the murders that you want to know?'

'On the contrary, it is we who have some information. The killer has been in touch with our newspaper this morning, and we'd like to hand over the letter he's sent to us, but in return, we'd like to get some exclusive information on the investigation being done by your department.'

Joshi pressed the buzzer under his table and his assistant arrived in a flash. Keeping a hand on the mouthpiece, he mimed “Rita. Now”. Noting the urgency in his master’s eyes, the assistant ran out to the Ops Room to get Rita.

'What have you received?'

Narang read out the letter verbatim.

Rita had only got into the Operation Room for the first briefing of the day when Joshi’s assistant — who insisted that the boss wanted her pronto — pulled her out.

When Rita entered Joshi's office, he beckoned her to remain silent by keeping a finger on his lips like a teacher reprimanding a student, and gestured her to sit. Then he put the phone on speaker.

Narang's voice filled the room.

'So, as I was saying Mr Commissioner, we need to help each other to find this criminal, who's already murdered two humble citizens and plans to murder many more.'

'What do you want from us?'

'Co-operation. The killer has notified us that he will be in touch if we cover the news regarding the murders and the ensuing investigation.'

'Can’t you see what he is after, Mr Narang?'

Rita gathered that the killer who had murdered Suri and Lele had contacted some journalist. Her mind went into overdrive...
Narang, Narang, Narang
...which newspaper was it?

'The bastard,' Joshi carried on. 'He wants NEWS of the DAY to cover events so he gets information on how far the investigation has reached, and how he can outmanoeuvre the police. He’s playing with you and us, Mr Narang.'

NEWS of the WORLD, Anita, Anita something…Rita became alert again, her mind returned to the conversation.

'Why don't you come over to my office and we could have a chat, I am at Nariman Point.'

'As I told you Mr Narang, my junior DCP Ferreira is responsible for this case, so I’ll let her know regarding this without delay. I'd advise you to come over to Crawford Market immediately so we don't lose any more time.'

'Mr Joshi, I am not giving you the letter if I do not get an exclusive scoop in return.'

'So you want me to bend over backwards because you've got a letter, which could well be from some weirdo?'

'He's also sent us the SIM card he used to call Samir Suri. Does that mean anything to you?' Narang thought he, now, had Joshi by the proverbial short hairs.

But he had misjudged Joshi.

'Mr Narang, you have some evidence which might be vital for this case. If you do not come to Crawford Market in the next two hours, I promise I will send uniformed police to your office to confiscate the letter and SIM.'

'You have no idea who you're talking to,' Narang raised his voice.

'Oh I know who you are. If you insist, I can send a search warrant for your premises. If that isn't enough, I can send an arrest warrant for obstructing an investigation, cause if I get you arrested, I have the right to search your office, residence...' Henpecked he might have been, but Joshi had balls of steel; he might not have been a toastmaster who wanted to share limelight, but he was no milquetoast either. Rita was seeing the other side of Joshi, the side that she had only heard about since she had joined. 'Two hours Mr Narang, and we can talk. Anything else?'

Tail between his legs, Narang's tone flattened. He was glad he hadn't put the phone on speaker for Anita to hear the conversation. 'Could I bring my Crime Editor along?'

'Be my guest.'

'Ha, he had to give in,' Narang told Anita after he put the phone down. 'Let's go.'

'How do you want to handle this?' Joshi asked Rita after narrating the content of the letter and the initial conversation she had missed.

'What does he want?'

'Who?'

'Narang.'

'Scoop. He wants to know details of the investigation, so he can publish. Crazy.'

"Remember, the only thing that works against a serial killer is his desire to get caught..."
Ash Mattel's words echoed in Rita's brain.
"He wants to be recognised for his art."
It was all coming true, faster than she had imagined: the killer making contact with the media, striving to know what the police investigation had accomplished so far, to gauge how close the police were in getting to him. It needed a more ingenious approach than Joshi accepting or refusing Narang's request, which was, in effect, the killer's demand. She recollected Ash explicating that the probabilities of failure were higher when the killer did something out of routine.

'We need a plan sir. The crime profiler you recommended had warned me of this situation, so, I think, it is in our interest, as much as it is in Narang's, to keep the dialogue open with this perp.'

'I agree, but be careful. This Narang guy will certainly try arm-twisting, you just heard how belligerent he was, almost ready for a fight. I know he's connected to the political fraternity in the state, despite his father being out of power, but we'll tackle that. I'll have a word with Mr Saxena before Narang — or one of his million stooges — approaches the boss. But, I'd like you to see him with me first time...he is known to conjure up stories, and he can be dodgy. We need to ensure he doesn't print a single word before we approve it.'

‘As I mentioned earlier…' Narang harrumphed to get Anita’s attention as he drove her to Crawford Market. 'I might be risking a lot by offering you the opportunity to cover this case, but I am confident you won't let me down professionally.' He paused. 'And personally.'

'You can be assured of that, sir.'

'Amit.'

'Sorry. Amit. I'll be discreet, punctual, meticulous —'

'I'd like to see everything you pen, and mind you I want everything published under our joint names. It will give more credibility if the readers see my name.'

Swine. Son-of-a-bitch.

'Oh yes, of course. No problem.'

'Good, professionalism is a must. What else would you do?'

'I am not sure I understand…'

Didn't she? Was this girl so witless that she didn’t take the hints or was he not being obvious? He took his left hand off the steering wheel of the car and placed it on her thigh. Now, do you get it, he wanted to say it. 'I mean something personal for me?'

'But you're married, Amit.' Anita had successfully dodged the insinuations by acting dumb thus far, but, with Narang boldly moving his hand up her thigh, she knew it was no longer possible.

Fuck that… what is your fucking problem with me being married? I am not proposing marriage, Narang wanted to yell. But he checked himself. 'Does that bother you?'