Bhendi Bazaar (20 page)

TWENTY
1991

Irony
(n)
: Incongruity between what is expected and what actually occurs.

The first free parliamentary elections took place in Russia. Nine years late. Only nine years earlier, Margaret, Viviane and Deborah had wanted to escape from the Red. The Red that was now fading and, with two of them dead, Margaret was still working in the red-light district. Ironical, too, that Junior — the illegitimate grandson of Bir Desai, one of the most feared men in Mumbai— was at the mercy of a small-time pimp, and had to be shifted from a bordello to an orphanage.

Junior was a precocious child; he comprehended the perceptible changes promptly, the change in attitudes of other girls in the Club, and of Pathak and Hina towards him early on.

He no longer had a room, as Viviane's room was allotted to a new girl who had been lured into this place from some Far Eastern Indian state. Sikkim, they had said. Red-hot
piece
, someone had remarked.

Margaret accommodated Junior in her room for wash and personal hygiene, kept his clothes, allowed him into her room during
office
hours if the client didn't mind the little boy's presence. Junior spent the rest of the hours of the never-ending days in the anteroom where most men referred to him as whoreson. They made him run small errands to rooms if anything was required last minute: cigarettes, soda, alcohol, condoms.

Pathak decided Junior had to leave.

There was a parochial orphanage close to Mount Mary Steps in Bandra that provided shelter and education to those deprived and needy, but they usually only took juvenescent boys; over eight was a precondition and Jay Desai Junior was about half that age

Pathak corrupted people with money. End of January 1991, Junior, now four years and a few months, was transported to the Bandra orphanage under the cover of darkness without the slightest inkling to Margaret or anyone else. He just disappeared. Margaret asked, but was unsympathetically snubbed. Insofar as Pathak was concerned, he had discharged his responsibility. He had put out feelers to Bir Desai if the ageing patriarch wanted a successor, but nothing came back. He couldn't waste any more time and money on a bastard.

Although he was tall for his age — three feet eight — Junior, isolated and homeless, howled all through his first day at the orphanage. He was given a small individual room for he was too young to be accommodated with older boys who might have taken advantage of him, bullied him. The stentorian cries softened by the second day and turned to sobs as the week advanced and he became resigned to a life in the place, getting conditioned to living alone in his room. Except for mealtimes and school, he was virtually incarcerated. His custodian was a Mr Fernando who was an avuncular man, polite and apparently considerate towards Junior.

Fernando was in his fifties; a celibate rector of the orphanage, he had worked in the orphanage for over three decades.

Late one night, after the first week had passed, Mr Fernando called in to check on Junior in the room. Finding him sobbing, he asked the boy to join him in the little study; he said they would pray together. Junior had never been in the study before, and walked behind Mr Fernando, who closed and locked the room as they walked in.

Wainscoted in dark chestnut, uncovered parquetry floor in oak and mahogany with small centre white rectangular inlays pretentiously posing as ivory, the study was dark except a small lamp on the corner table, which elongated their shadows and made Junior smile. This orphanage had indeed seen better times. An ancient mammoth solid ebony wood table, now decrepit, stood in a far corner near the only window in the room.

'You know Pathak —' Mr Fernando began, reclining against the huge table.

'Pathak
bhai
.' No one had dared call him or mentioned his name as Pathak in Junior's presence.

'Yes. He told me you spent time with your mother in her room when men came to see her.' He beckoned Junior to come closer, stand between his open legs.

Nod.
Yes
.

'So you know what your mum did?'

Nod. Old memories of men balling up his mother started flooding Junior’s sleepy brain.

'She was a whore. You know what a whore is?'

Junior had heard the word from Pathak and his friends in the anteroom countless times, and somehow gathered it had a negative association.

'So what does that make you?' Mr Fernando didn't wait for a response. 'A whoreson?'

Junior's eyes were filled with fear. No, it was torment. Rage. Why was Mr Fernando festering his wounds, exhuming undesired memories?

'And now I'll make you my whore.'

The sick Mr Fernando unzipped his fly and took out his penis. 'You should know what to do with it. Come on, kneel down in front and take it in your mouth like your mother, you bastard.' He held Junior's head tightly in place till he forced the little boy to swallow the last drop. 'If you even so much as mention this to someone, you see that cane? I will flog you so much it'll rip off your skin. And don't worry your brainless head about me finding an excuse. You understand that?' Canes made of bamboo sat in an umbrella stand close to the table. So this was what caused boys to scream; Junior had heard some cries a few nights back. He nodded and left when Mr Fernando was zipped up and ready. He patted Junior on his head. 'Good boy.'

Tears of disgrace flowed till late in the night, as Junior lay awake staring at the dirty- cobwebbed ceiling of his room. If he ran away, where could he go? Beg on the streets? Live where? What was the certainty someone else wouldn’t demean him? Should he complain to someone tomorrow? The insidiousness he had seen in Mr Fernando's eyes haunted him for the rest of the night and sent frissons down his little spine. Afraid of the unknown, of what lay in store for him, he cowered in his bed. His little brain was inept to fathom what the ensuing days — and nights — would bring.

Lust is a stubborn companion. Mr Fernando appeared in his room again the next night. And two nights later when Mr Fernando took him to the study and made him strip, there were two more men in the study. Mr Fernando was, now, making money off Junior.

TWENTY-ONE
2007

Bhim Yadav was a regular traveller to Mumbai, a recruitment consultant in his late thirties who flew in from Gurgaon almost once a quarter to oversee the Mumbai chapter. Though many businesses had relocated to Gurgaon, in the north, some key clients in the financial industry still remained here; some were too big to move, others were severely cash-strapped at the moment.

After concluding his last meeting at a client's office in BKC — Bandra Kurla Complex — around seven-thirty that evening, Yadav called for a cab and looked forward to retiring for the day with a drink. His assistant had booked him at ITC Grand Maratha, which was his usual address whenever he was in Mumbai. He dialled a number from his mobile as the driver negotiated through the painfully slow traffic on BKC Road. After unsuccessfully trying the number a few times, he gave up; the number seemed to have been disconnected. But, he didn't give up his quest for a hooker for the night. As the car turned from BKC Road into LBS Road, Yadav asked the taxi driver, 'Any chance you know some place I could get a girl for a few hours?'

The driver looked in the rear view mirror to observe Yadav carefully. Businessman. Alone in the city. Didn't look like a policeman running a sting operation, which was his main fear. 'What kind girl?' he asked in his taxi driver’s vernacular.

'Anyone, but some nice girl. I have a number to call, but it appears to have changed.'

'Which number you have?'

'It's a mobile number. I used to call someone called Malti who had a great flock, and she obliged every time.'

'Aha…' the driver exclaimed. 'Malti's number changing. You trying...' With one hand on the steering wheel, he pulled out his mobile and read out the number. '982...'

Yadav withdrew his wallet, extracted two hundred-rupee notes and handed over to the driver.

'
Bus kya sahib?'
the driver grudgingly expressed, "just this much", in his Mumbai lingo.

Yadav was prepared that the driver would ask for more. He pulled out another two hundred and gave it to the driver.

'Want condom?'

'No thanks.'

'Enjoy
sahib
. Malti's girls very costly. At least take twice.' He winked and advised Yadav while he took the baggage out of the car's boot.

Jatin had taken Anita out for a dinner date to
"Not Just Jazz By The Bay".
The restaurant on Marine Drive waterfront was once known as
Jazz By The Bay
; that was when they only played Jazz. Shift in music tastes had forced them to rename the place to attract a younger crowd.

Their soups were over when Anita's mobile, kept on the table, buzzed. Jatin unintentionally glanced at the caller ID: Auntie. Anita apologised and looked at Jatin who, with a nod, gestured at her to take the call.

‘Hello auntie…no you didn’t…just having dinner with…a friend…not at all… yes…we can talk now…when…no don’t bother calling anyone else…I’m sure…really…not a problem. Thanks…will call you later. Bye.’ Anita switched off the phone. ‘Sorry,’ she told Jatin.

‘That’s OK. I didn’t know you had an auntie.’

‘Yes, and she’s not well. Her caretaker hasn’t turned up for the night, so she was wondering if I could, maybe, stay with her tonight.’

‘Oh, she’s in Mumbai then.’

‘Yes, in Mahim.’

‘Should we leave now?’

‘No, let’s eat the dinner we’ve ordered. There is no rush, it’s only nine.’

‘I can drop you at Mahim, it’s on my way.’

‘No, I’ll go to my apartment first to collect my stuff. Just drop me there.’

Bhim Yadav, regrettably, couldn't heed the driver's advice. According to the pathologist's estimate, he died somewhere between 11 p.m. and midnight. Cause of death was later confirmed as Class IV Haemorrhage: severe bleeding. His genitalia had been butchered with a 4-inch serrated knife. He had been drugged with Chloral Hydrate. A 9x19 slug was put into his head, revealed the post-mortem. The killer did not employ any charade to point towards a female killer in this instance, and neither did he or she take the body part away as a souvenir. What was missing from the scene was Yadav’s mobile phone, without which — because it was a roaming SIM from a Delhi network — it was impossible to trace any calls made or received.

ITC Grand Maratha was surrounded by enough police to stop a mutiny for the second time in as many months.

TWENTY-TWO
2007

Rita had run her theory of the killer being a female past Ash, but, initially, he was unsure if he agreed with her. Although he bought into the evidence that all the murders had been in connection with girls and prostitution, and also concurred with Rita that the killer was too passionate to be carrying out a job on someone else’s behalf, he wasn’t convinced it was a female doing the execution.

‘The roots of the crimes look deeper than we might have originally thought, Rita.

They lie deep in the past, and you might need to time travel to get there.’ The fervour shown by the killer was forcing Ash to rethink.

‘What do you mean with that woolly line?’

‘I have an uncanny feeling these murders possibly have a motive. The killer’s demonstrating his or her anger, frustration; it’s not a fantasy as we deliberated before. But for a woman, I'd put a wager on vendetta; revenge for past humiliation, degradation at hands of men, rape or justice wronged or some such thing. It could be of self or some family member. Or both. The cruelty and savagery, though, make me lean towards self.’

Rita looked nonplussed, not because she didn’t believe Ash, but if there had been a motive behind the killings, Mumbai Police should have picked up some scent.

'There could have been other reasons too — childhood abuse, tyrant parent or substance abuse… some start as peeping toms and graduate to killing and rape; others — especially avengers, which in this case looks very likely — start from the top and stay there. Children, most children can't completely comprehend such things till the age of four or five, but the subconscious records it, and, for some unfortunate ones, replays it later in life. The partial reminiscences are, by then, obviously jaundiced by their experiences over the years.’

‘But, if she…or he was wronged at some point in life, why start the killings now?’ ‘Even though sex, violence and death may have, unknowingly but inextricably, coalesced in the little mind years ago, something, some similar event recently, could have sparked the madness. And because you haven’t yet discovered any of his past crimes does not indicate he’s never killed before. Recidivism is extremely common amongst such people.

They might commit some crime, then in a rational moment repent, determine not to repeat, but when the ghosts of the past come calling, it doesn't take much persuasion to regress. It’s not very different from a cocaine addict. Killing is an addiction, for some it's a sport, for some it's a fulfilment. I can assure you he has a lust for blood now. The beast doesn’t change. There are various theories and examples. It would be virtually impossible to put a finger on which need these killings are satiating for this murderer…’

‘You mean…’

‘I don’t mean it is cast in granite, but you might find he’s killed before and escaped. He’s only now got obsessed with killing, which will lead him to his destruction sooner rather than later.’

Rita smiled. The police didn’t have a clue who or where the killer was; how were the killings moving this demented killer towards his destruction? ‘He might have escaped before, but how does he think he can escape now, after killing five?’

‘You seriously think I can answer that Rita?’

Rita smiled again. It was providential to find a good old friend who was a psychoanalyst; she didn’t feel thick asking questions.

August. Ash Mattel had returned to London. As per his promise, he lodged with Rita on his Mumbai trip and did little else, giving Rita the impression she was the sole purpose of his visit. Which was a good feeling, but, as Rita had expected, it had no prospects.

It was nearing two months since the Adit Lele case, and Mumbai Police was none the wiser after five murders than it was after the first. There had been no breakthrough. It had been over three weeks since the last murder at ITC Grand Maratha. The killer had apparently gone off into hibernation again.

The evening was balmy; Rita had the windows open to let some cool breeze in. The monsoon had moved north now, leaving Mumbai humid. She had had a busy day at work and planned to unwind with a book, but lurid images of the murders kept flashing in front of her. Jim peered at her from the shelf. She conceded. Taking a sip, she put on the Sufjan Stevens CD that Ash had got for her on his recent visit, but her mind reflected on the conversations she had had with Ash. Despite recognising that Ash was a criminal profiler, and what he said was generic, Rita’s mind had been in overdrive ever since he had underlined the possibility of revenge. Was someone really settling old scores?

The telephone ring disrupted the gentle sound of slight breeze playing the chimes.

‘How was Ash?’ It was a voice through the multiplicative scrambler. It sounded female.

Rita could feel goose bumps on her entire body, but she maintained calm. ‘How have you been?’

‘I am fine, but you didn’t answer me.’

Rita was distracted; she had picked up her mobile and was sending a text to Vikram and Jatin to call up the Duty Officer to trace this call at her residential line. ‘Sorry, Ash was fine, what do you care?’

‘I care…oh…I care. Why do you think I did not kill when Ash was here? I didn’t want to bother you.’

‘Listen, you’re not doing yourself any favours by killing innocent men…if you surrender yourself, I promise I’ll try my best that you do not get capital punishment for your guilt…’

‘You think I am guilty? I find it a relief. Heads and tails — aren’t they just different sides of the same coin, DCP?’

‘What are you trying to prove?’ Rita carried on, hoping the call could be traced. But she knew the truth: the voice would have ensured it couldn’t be traced. The killer was much sharper than that.

'You've missed the essence, DCP.' The voice didn’t wait for a response. 'Men fuck these girls because they choose to. The girls fuck because they have no choice. Stupid laws in the country, and the world over — the whore's the one charged by police, not the fucking tricks, not the pimps, not the men who lure or force women into this ugly profession. Do you really believe a girl cheerfully walks into this scum to become a whore? Men run this business for men, a woman’s body is just a cheap commodity.’

‘But you aren’t going to cure the world of prostitution?’ ‘I’ll do as much as I can.’

‘How does it help you? Are you one of the unfortunate girls —‘ ‘Maybe. But I am tired. Do you think I want to do this forever?’ ‘Then why are you doing it? Is someone forcing you?’

‘Not any more. They forced me when they could, not any more.’ The malevolence in the voice was unambiguous.

Rita could feel the rage of someone reminded of past hurt. ‘I feel like killing someone today,’ the voice continued.

‘Please…’

‘Tonight. See if you or your entire police force can save this fucker.’

‘Listen —‘

The line went dead.

Rita called Vikram. He had relayed the message to the control room and was waiting for them to come back to him.

Vikram called back after five minutes. The call was traced to an unsubscribed mobile number; the location had been traced to Andheri West.

‘Let Jatin know too.’

When Mr Lokhandwala had purchased the marshland for this complex in the late Seventies, every single property broker had thought the builder had lost his marbles.
No one would want to live so far away from downtown Mumbai, they had argued.
Every single one of those property brokers was proved wrong. Today, it was one of the biggest housing complexes in Mumbai with even some of the Bollywood glitterati living here. The vastness of this concrete monstrosity was a challenge for Rita. Even if the murderer was in Andheri West, and in Lokhandwala, how were the police supposed to guard each and every door?

Vikram got there soon after Rita, as she sipped tea in the Andheri Police Station. The SHO had sent out uniformed troops to patrol the area. Everyone recognised this was meant to be a mere preventive act. If the killer was already in someone’s apartment, it was a futile exercise. And how could they apprehend him or her when they didn’t even know the gender of the killer. They couldn’t stop every single person on the road.

Their presumption wasn’t wrong.

The killer had shot the victim by 10 p.m.

Rita was still with Vikram and Jatin when her mobile rang at a few minutes past eleven. Blocked caller.

It was the killer’s voice through the scrambler. ‘You did well DCP, your crony traced my call to Andheri, but you couldn’t stop me, could you? Touché.’

The line went dead. The killer obviously had no intentions of talking long enough for the location to be traced this time.

The body was recovered at three, after a neighbour in Tarapore Towers — coming home after night shift — found the front door of Mr Dina Patel ajar. The rest was merely an encore.

Naked stiff, drugged, butchered, shot once. Despite the fact that the killer knew police was all around Andheri, he hadn’t slipped; he had been cautious not to make any errors. The only sign, incontestably, was the perfume, the womanly scent Rita and Vikram had smelt at the site of Adit Lele’s murder. Rita had a recollection she had had a whiff of that same smell somewhere else, besides the first murder at Versova. Where? She had tried focussing on it earlier, but couldn’t. And she couldn’t put a finger on it now either. ‘Vikram, how did she know…?’ Rita was part thinking, part talking, her mind racing all over the place.

‘What ma’am?’

‘How did he know we had…or rather
you
had traced the call to Andheri?’

There was silence. Silence was good. Rita let it hang in the air long enough for her to put her floating thoughts together. There was something uncharacteristic, something aberrant there. There was a fleeting hint of something she had failed to catch. Something eluded her.
How did he know? How did the killer know?

Then it struck, like lightning on a dark night. Sometimes, things aren't immediately apparent for quite a while, but Rita realised, now, that she had missed the obvious. The killer was listening…that’s how he knew about Hegde, he pre-empted the arrest of Al Khan, and he knew everything. One thing, as they say, leads to another; you only see certain things when something else makes you think of it. The scent — Rita had had a trace in her own apartment soon after the first murder when she had returned, when the killer had, unintentionally, left the lights on. Why didn’t she think of it before? Her phone had been wired. The floodgates of revelations flowed through. Wasn’t this the same time when the phone in the Ops Room had gone dead? That had been wired up too then?

‘Vikram…get to the Ops Room, that phone is bugged. Get the whole place searched.’

Rita was in the driving seat already. Her wheels screeched as she took a ‘U’ turn and sped away.

It was a frightening reminder of her own mortality, and the unrestricted ambit of her challenger. The evil genius had established his ingenuity by the act. If he — the killer — could get into the apartment of a detective and fit microphones, how vulnerable were his victims? Rita was unnerved at the discovery of bugs, but more at her own negligence: how had she not considered it?

How and when did someone wire her flat? The media would have a field day, not to mention the jokes that would propagate like a viral infection.

Rita suddenly felt suffocated in the bugged house. It was like she wasn't alone anymore in her own home. She rushed to her personal telephone, but stopped. Ten to one it was bugged too. Upset at being blindsided, she upended Jim and stormed out of the flat, slamming the door behind her. As she walked out of the building, she felt a million eyes following her. Every stranger intrigued her, made her anxious; she had been, for the first time in her career, challenged on her own turf. Egregious. Livid as she was, she couldn't help admiring the shrewdness and the damnable nerve of the murderer. The killer’s morbid need to kill that had compelled him to bug Rita’s apartment.

She went back to her apartment to check her files, though nothing about the case was at home and her computer had an encryption; the data could not have been accessed. Rita felt humiliated by the appalling discovery. The idea, she reckoned, wasn't to stop her; it was to know her plan to be ahead of the game. And the animal had succeeded so far.

She had two choices: to either get her apartment swept of the wires or use this opportunity to mislead.
"Wires found in the DCP’s apartment,"
she reckoned, would dominate television and newspaper for the next twenty-four hours if not more. But, she couldn’t let the bugs remain in the Ops Room, and that would be a giveaway in any case. The bugs, therefore, needed to be removed without fanfare, and in the meantime, maybe, the team could work on the location of the receivers for them.

Bugging Rita’s phones wasn't a novel practice. Ash had warned that most serial killers had, in the past, tried getting close to the investigating body either to overcome the guilt or out of fear of being caught: some even came forward to help, others befriended police officers for info, and still others stalked sleuths. Hence, tapping Rita’s phone should have been no surprise, especially when the killer had started playing games.

The Operation Room phone had been bugged too.

The bugs were made in China. The wireless microphones discovered could transmit voice data over two thousand feet. The team had to switch off mobiles, computers, television, and all other electronics to kibosh all radio-frequency interferences to search for more mikes. There weren’t any besides two in Rita’s apartment, and one in the Ops Room telephone. As to where these microphones relayed, it was a near impossible task to unearth. A two thousand feet diametre around Rita’s apartment or Crawford Market could mean several thousand households. That explained the cunningness of the killer. Rita knew that though they would keep the discovery of the bugs within the police circle and not let it out to the media, the killer would have known the moment they had unplugged the microphones.

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