Bhendi Bazaar (23 page)

‘Your humble servant, Mr Desai.’ The guy opened the cigarette packet and proffered it to Junior. As Junior put the stick between his lips, the man held out a lighter.

‘You’re mistaking me for someone else, but thanks for the fag anyway.’ Junior turned to leave. Agreed his official name was Jay Desai, but he wasn’t wont to hearing Mister Desai…there was undoubtedly some mistake somewhere.

‘Wait Mr Desai.’ The man put his hand on the boy’s shoulder to stop him. ‘We’ve been looking for you for months now.’

‘Wrong. You might be looking for Jay Desai, but that Jay Desai isn’t me.’ He started walking

‘No, Mr Desai, we’ve been looking for
you,
’ the man called out, following Junior like a faithful dog.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because you are Madam Viviane’s son, and you carry your father’s name: Jay Desai.

Junior was merely a nickname your mother gave you; sadly it stuck.’

‘What do you want?’ Junior halted abruptly. This man knew something. ‘Your grandfather would like to see you Mr Desai.’

‘And
who
is my grandfather?’ ‘Mr Bir Desai.’

‘You mean…
the
Bir Desai?’ Which misfortunate hadn’t heard the name in Mumbai? The man nodded. ‘The car is waiting for you.’

It was a Mercedes Benz S320. White. Privacy glass.

The rivals had infiltrated into Bir Desai’s gang, had bought one of his trusted security guards. In the annals of treachery, an unfaithful guard working for an underworld bigwig should go down as the worst criminal, but that’s a story for another day. The guard, obviously, got the kingpin. Bir Desai was shot dead as he came out of his residence for an early morning walk, but it was two days too late.

Jay Desai Junior had already been crowned as the incoming messiah.

A pawn only has to cross five spaces to become the queen. It took Jay Desai five years — since he left the orphanage — to become the king, the king of one of the most feared underworld empires in Mumbai.

‘Your bail has been given.’

Raaj couldn’t believe it. Who in their right minds would bail him out? The only person he loved was Junior, and to the best of his knowledge, Junior couldn’t afford the kind of cash the court had asked for. But, this wasn’t the time to ask. He collected his belongings and happily walked out.

The white Mercedes was parked right in front of the prison gate. Shining. Privacy glass. Raaj looked at the car, but had no desire to confront or challenge the person who had got him put of prison before the term. The uniformed chauffer stepped out to summon him to the car.

‘Why?’ Raaj asked as he walked closer to the car. ‘Mr Desai would like to see you.’

‘And who the fuck is this Mr Desai?’

The window in the rear cabin lowered for Raaj to see Junior, who sat dressed in an expensive woollen steel-grey suit, quite a change from the torn shorts he wore at the pipe they called home. Junior winked, and beckoned him into the car.

‘What the fuck?’

‘Sit comfortably, my friend.’ Jay Desai uttered pressing the button to raise the glass between them and the chauffeur. They kissed. Like lovers do. The tongues entwined like two snakes fighting a wrestling match.

‘How did you —?'

Jay Desai gave a detailed account, in the privacy of the car, as the car drove them into the meandering lanes of Byculla — his inheritance, his empire.

‘This is not mine, this is yours,’ Junior said lighting up a fag and filling the glasses with Chivas Regal when they got home. He threw the packet of B&H on the table for Raaj.

‘What do you mean?’ ‘I have a plan.’

‘You found Margaret?’

‘Yes and no. I didn’t, but my grandfather did. That’s how he found me.’

‘You met her?’

‘Not yet. The first person I’ve met since my grandfather died is you.’

‘What’s the plan, then?’

Junior explained he had decided to walk away from the crime hole, giving the reins of his inheritance to Raaj. 'As I said, all this is yours because I don’t belong here.. I want to go away from all this, but I might need your help all along. Promise me you’ll never compromise me, never let anyone know my origins.’

‘Unconditional promise, my friend. I'd kill myself before I do anything that can harm you. You sure you don’t even want to tell me what is it that’s driving you away from this opulence?’

‘The opulence, the way it’s gathered, it’ll always remind me of the past, which I want to forget.’

‘No worries, you don’t have to tell me if you don't want to. Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?’

‘You’re right,’ Desai agreed.

‘You were my first love, remember? I know I turned gay under the circumstances, why did you?’

‘I can’t even think of being with a woman. Let’s not discuss this any further on that please.’

‘As you say. What do you want me to do?’

‘You run this crime empire, which you always wanted to do. I go away, but if I need anything, you shall give me without any questions...’

‘That’s a promise.’

They made love the last time.

‘There’s someone to see you madam.’

‘Me?’ Margaret sounded perplexed. It had been quite a while since someone had asked to see Margaret at Bhendi Bazaar. ‘Who is it?’

‘Mr Desai.’

‘Who?’

‘It’s me Margaret.’ Jay had walked in behind the girl who had opened the door. ‘Do I know you?’

‘Yes.’

Margaret squinted her eyes. Something about Desai was familiar, but she couldn’t place her finger on anything. There was an air about the man that she wanted to recognise, but it escaped her. The eyes were recognisable, but nothing else was. ‘How come you know me and I don’t?’

‘You do, you aren’t exercising you brain enough Margaret.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Jay Desai.’

The name rang a thousand bells. She had definitely heard the name before, but it had got buried under the dust she had accumulated in her mind for decades. It took her a little longer than a minute to pull it out. ‘Junior?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh my Junior.’ Margaret got up and hugged him. ‘How have you been?’

‘Forget about me, how have you been? You wouldn’t believe, but I’ve thought about you so many times. I had no idea where they put you up after you were gone from that dump.’ She wiped the tears that had started to form. Memories of Junior’s childhood, her two deceased friends — the deaths of whom she had incessantly held herself responsible for — zoomed inside her brain, in front of her eyes…the one ill-fated step; an error she made in a hapless moment in time, and the price she had paid for almost a quarter of a century.

‘Tell me everything Margaret, everything from the beginning.’

‘Drink?’

‘Sure.’

Margaret called a girl and asked for whisky. ‘Water or soda?’ She looked at Desai. ‘Nothing.’

‘Get two glasses and the bottle of Scotch from my room please.'

From USSR — a country that did not exist any longer — to Mumbai, Margaret apprised Jay Desai, giving all details she could pull out of memory. Two hours and five drinks later, the story stalled. ‘Here we are. I will never forgive myself.’

‘Don’t be too harsh on yourself Margaret, you did, whatever it was, in good faith.’

‘I am so happy to see you Junior.’

‘I can get you out of this wretched place.’

‘Where will I go now?’

‘I hear you. But I need your help.’

‘My help?’ Margaret looked flabbergasted. What could a whore who was well past her expiry date do to help the prince of the underworld?

‘Yes.’

‘I’d do anything for you, anything you ask for.’

‘Good.’

Desai spoke for about a quarter of an hour, with Margaret nodding and pouring drinks. ‘I am in. I’ll do as you want, but I am sure you appreciate the risk.’

‘I can arrange a passport for any country you want, you might need it in case you feel the heat around the corner…’

‘Really?’

‘Which one do you want?’

‘One Russian and one Irish.’ The dream might have been buried, but it wasn’t dead. ‘It will be done Margaret. I’ll make sure they are delivered to you in the next few weeks. We’ll talk but I’m not sure if we’ll ever meet again. One last question...do you know where my mother's grave is?'

'Yes.'

The two exchanged numbers, hugs and parted. It was bucketing down when the car picked up Jay Desai from Bhendi Bazaar.

‘Home?’ asked the driver.

‘Not yet.’ Desai looked at his watch. 6 p.m. ‘Take me to Takshila Apartments in Andheri East, I have to square up an old debt.’

The car drove into the housing complex — Takshila Apartments — a little after eight. Mr Fernando died of a skull fracture at 8:20 p.m.

Jay Desai’s visits to Raaj decreased with time. Raaj was glad that his friend who had given him everything was finally happy. No request, however atrocious — guns, alcohol, whatever— was ever to be declined was what he had instructed everyone who worked for him.

Then, one day in July of 2006, Desai dropped the bomb. He told Raaj he was leaving.

Forever. And Raaj knew it was pointless to even ask.

‘Just one thing Raaj, I am leaving a friend in the city. If she ever needs anything, she’ll call you and give you the reference of this conversation. Give her anything she ever wants, would you?'

‘I promise. And if you ever come back, be in touch.’ Jay nodded.

‘You’ve done so much for me Jay…my Junior…please be safe.’ Raaj’s eyes were wet. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

The same afternoon, Jay Desai visited Viviane’s grave at Sewri Cemetery. Viviane was befittingly buried in the cemetery that had originally been set up for European burials in 1865. Located in Parel, it was now the biggest Christian burial ground in Mumbai. Amongst some of the older and more intricate European gravestones Viviane lay under an asphalted grave — soiled with time, monsoon and bird droppings — that hadn’t been tended to since she had been buried under the cover of the night. The gravestone named her as Viviane Casey; no dates for birth or death were mentioned, which was obvious. If Pathak had declared such a young death, someone might have asked for an autopsy.

Tears flooded Desai’s eyes without a warning. Seeing his mother’s grave was pleasantly stirring and disturbing at the same time. Old wounds resurfaced. He sat down on a dwarf wall between the graves. The rain, long over, had left the cement wall damp, which seeped into his body through his bottom that sat on it. The sun shone through the partial clouds, humidity was high and rain wasn’t forecast for the coming evening. But how long could he stay there? He could taste his misery: the bitter tang of his mother’s defeat.

Some wounds stay green. Each scar hurt, every memory pained, seconds moved like a lazy turtle. He knew he had to leave. He had to be strong. Viviane’s obituary might have been written more than fifteen years ago, but she still lived in Jay Desai’s heart and mind. To him, she was a wandering soul, drifting, seeking him, and watching him, eyes beseeching him to set her soul free.

Jay Desai left Mumbai the same evening. He had decided never to return, and he kept his promise: Jay Desai never returned to Mumbai.

TWENTY-FIVE
2007

It was incredibly embarrassing for Rita Ferreira, the Crime Branch and entire Mumbai Police that — more than three months into the investigation — even the gender of the perp couldn't be ascertained. Recanting on the hypothesis regarding the gender for the second time would indeed be disastrous for the department's standing; they weren't speculating on Angelina Jolie's next adoption: would it be a boy or a girl? They were trying to apprehend a killer who had brought Mumbai on the brink of panic.

The media had run out of all positivity, and justifiably so. "
This case would never be solved,"
most had prophesied. Mumbai Police, to their knowledge, had picked up no clues till now, hence if the killer didn't dispatch any more whoremongers, how would the police ever get to him? "
Wasn't that why Jack the Ripper was never captured: because one day he just discontinued the killing?"
they instanced.

Only, the media weren't intimated about the newest discovery: Margaret Flynn, and what had been unearthed post that breakthrough. The fourth estate had been served with mere scraps to keep the killer satiated — should he be interested in news still — that the police had no scent yet.

Decoys had been planted around Bhendi Bazaar to keep an eye on Margaret's bordello.

All telephone lines had been bugged.

The fact that both Viviane’s son and the guy who fathered him were missing from every national database searched was too unconvincing to be coincidental. Even if it was just coincidence, it was too overwhelming to be overlooked. They had to find these missing links.

'Every single girl's alibi has been verified by their clients, including those men who aren't residents of Mumbai,' Vikram updated Rita. 'Makes me wonder if Margaret herself —'

'If Margaret were to go on a killing spree, why wouldn't she have started a decade earlier? Why would she go into hibernation for so long only to come out of it to kill? Doesn't make sense.'

'Maybe because she has more opportunity now than she had before...?'

'You may have a point there, but I'd wager on the son. Let's find him.'

One of Senior Inspector Nene’s snitches loosened some nuts and bolts of an old infamous massage parlour at Cuffe Parade. The informant was uncertain about Viviane or her son, but was confident that the owner — Pathak — had sent a young boy to some Catholic children's home in Bandra, in early 1991.

Locating the orphanage at Mount Mary Steps was effortless for the police. The records indicated that Pathak had given a boy named Jay Desai into the custody of the orphanage, but the boy had fled sometime in late 2000 — the records weren't meticulously maintained.

Seven years previously, Rita calculated. 'Why wasn't it reported to the police if a juvenile had run away?' she asked.

The caretaker, now, was an old man, Peter Coelho, in his late fifties. He had no answer to Rita's question. He shrugged his shoulders.

'Who was the caretaker of this institution in 2000?'

'Mr Fernando. He was the caretaker from 1989 till 2003 when he was...' Coelho stopped in mid-sentence.

Rita caught the strain. Coelho had braked hard to stop himself from saying something derogatory; his countenance, nonetheless, had let him down. 'He was fired,' she baited.

'How do you know?'

'I guessed it 'cause you didn't complete the sentence.'

'Oh.' Coelho looked relieved; he didn't wish to be known as a turncoat against the sacred institution.

'Care to tell us?'

'Why are you looking for Jay Desai after so many years?'

'As I told you on the phone, this is in connection with another investigation, which we cannot reveal at the moment. Why did Mr Fernando leave?'

'He was accused of paedophilia. Some boys in the orphanage reported it to the authorities. He was asked to leave before someone brought up a case against him.'

'No one bothered to report that to the police either,' Rita stated in a prosaic tone.

The shake of the head insinuated no. 'It was up to the victims if they wanted to report.

Most didn’t want publicity, so —' ‘Where is he now?'

'He lives in...' Coelho cringed his eyebrows to think for a moment. 'I think I have his address on file. He sifted through a few files in the shelf behind his desk. 'Here it is...Andheri East.'

He wrote it down on a piece of paper and handed it over to Vikram, as though his celibacy would be invaded if his hand had come in contact with a woman. Or maybe his antediluvian monastery still believed that a woman officer had to be lower-ranked than the male?

'Any photograph of Jay Desai on file?'

Coelho nodded, got up and left the room. He returned with a single postcard size picture of a bony boy who appeared frazzled, perhaps because of years of living as an orphan.

'We'll take this.' Rita didn't ask. She took the photograph from Coelho and gave it to Vikram. 'If you find any more photographs or come across any other information that might help us locate him, please give me a call.' She pulled out her card and waited till he reluctantly stretched his hand to take it.

The last photograph of Jay Desai when, according to the records, he must have been fourteen had been taken in September of 2000. It was hardly challenging for the police artist to generate a computer-aided e-fit of what he might presently look like.

'If Jay Desai left the orphanage at fourteen, he should have been — according to this picture — five feet one, so he shouldn't be any taller than five feet three inches, maximum five-four,' Rustom, the young expert constructing the e-fit at the lab, told Rita and Vikram confidently. 'The picture you gave me tells us that the boy was slightly built, skinny for his age if you ask me, but we can never predict his present frame with more than eighty per cent confidence level, which is unusable. There are too many unknowns — he could have taken steroids, built up muscles through exercise or maybe reduced to a skeleton by substance abuse, whatever…’

'Let's go and see Mr Fernando. Maybe we get to know something more about Jay Desai, more than just a picture and a few photofits.' Rita got up. 'Come Vikram.'

'Do we need a back-up ma'am?'

'What for?' As a reflex, Rita's right hand went under her jacket to check for her service revolver.

The lock at Mr Fernando's door in Takshila Apartments at Andheri East was rusty, like it hadn't been opened for quite a while. No recent activity showed. Mr Fernando could have been travelling; there might be no one to look after the place in his absence.

Rita rang the bell. Nothing.

She rang the bell again and put her ear to the dusty door. There wasn't any sound of the bell either. Fernando might have been out long enough for the electric connection to be disconnected.

Maybe.

Rita knocked hard. Then Vikram stepped forward to give it a man's knock. Nothing.

'Stay here Vikram.' Rita looked at the damp asphalt — there had been sporadic showers the night before — around the ground floor apartment. 'I'll go round to check if some window is open.'

'OK ma'am.'

She was back before the minute lapsed. 'Call for a back-up and break the lock Vikram...I think there is someone lying on the floor, motionless.'

Vikram pulled out the handcuffs from the back pocket and gave the lock a thunderous strike with the metal. The lock didn't resist.

If there was one thing that was more nauseating than the stench of death, it was the fetid scent of an old death. Rankness of decomposed human remains could make the toughest guys retch, but Rita and Vikram stayed composed. Putrid stench increasingly filled the nostrils as they walked deeper into the apartment. A million maggots that had partied on the corpse had died too after bingeing; that or they died of starvation after nothing was left in the body to suck at. Scuffed enamel of the bones beamed when Vikram switched on the torch; almost skeleton, there was barely any skin left. The skeleton, in places, was attached together by leather, which was once ligament, skin or muscle. The little mummified ribbons left were so abraded it was hard to tell the sex of the corpse.

The body had certainly been exposed to a couple of monsoons and as such, there wasn’t much physical structure left for necropsy. The stiff would require a forensic pathologist to formally identify who it was once-upon-a-time, how she or he died and when? Unlike a morbid pathologist, the identification — of body, the cause and time of death — in such a case would typically need an autopsy that took longer than usual. 'Dead for more than a year, I think,' Vikram murmured.

'Easily a couple, maybe more.'

They found a broken wristwatch with the time 08:17. No a.m. or p.m., no month, no year. That was hardly any information to work with. Besides, there was no way to establish the watch had stopped at the time of this person's death.

The crime scene investigation army arrived within half an hour. They scoured and dusted latents off everything possible: tiles, doorframe, pipes, and collected fragments in bottles.

A fresh flush of adrenaline rushed through Rita's veins. Who was it? A lot would fall into place if, and when, they could determine who he was before he became this wretched paste: Mr Fernando or Jay Desai? Trying as hard as she could, she couldn’t come up with any other names to associate with this corpse.

With the body so pulverised, it was impossible for forensic expert to ascertain the real cause of the death on the spot, except for a cracked skull. However, he was certain it was a male corpse, and it was surely murder; he had been hit on the head.

Everything was neatly indexed, packed and transported to the mortuary.

The teeth — and lack of some of them — gave the age of the man as early Sixties. The X-ray of skull plates showed a clear fusion between brow and top plates, which also established the age of the person: above sixty for sure. The age tallied with Fernando's. Height: five-ten, which was another indication that it could be Fernando, and not Jay Desai. Must have been well built in his youth and middle age — about ninety kilos. Bludgeoned on the head with something like a cricket bat. Death might have been instant after the fracture of the skull, but there were several other broken bones — a few ribs, the left wrist, which might or might not have been post-mortem; it was too late after the decay to ascertain. There wasn't much else the experts could tell.

A tired cliché but there was, really, no free lunch. You savoured a chocolate, you paid for it.
Karma
has a just way of getting back at you. The heinous old custodian of the orphanage was known for malpractice — an unconscionable, barbarous, paedophile that he had been. He seemed to have had a sub-rosa group that revelled in vile activities; fellow degenerates in hallowed clothing. They sodomised helpless kids, and someone came back to fuck Fernando. It was
Karma
. It was fair. Pity it wasn't legal and a policewoman was not to question why. Rita couldn't commiserate as a police officer — the law neither paid nor was permitted to sympathise with suspects — but as a woman, as a human being, she did condole this particular murder. She was grateful she wasn't the judge.

How could anyone convict Fernando's killer and sleep at night?

However, if Fernando had abused a lot of children, any one could have turned around and exterminated the bastard. Fernando's murder could be a totally different case.

Fernando had been coshed on the head that had resulted in his death. The five murders suggested a pattern. Al Khan's murder, Rita was aware, had been different; it had been in a hurry, to protect the murderer's identity. This sixth — and the oldest one at that — deviated from the pattern. No stabbing, no drugging, no bullet. Perhaps another unplanned murder the killer committed or did he kill Fernando before he became a serial killer?

"
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
." Hadn't Ash warned?

Then again, the blow to the head, possibly, wasn't intended to kill; murder might not have been the objective, but it happened nevertheless. The other murders were committed with precision. Could this be a different killer or was it too much of a coincidence? Or was this where it all began, and then stopped only to recur with an utterly antithetic Modus Operandi? Rita's mind was relentlessly trying to work out the puzzle. She couldn't afford to make mistakes on a case she had been working on for three months now. Bungled detective work, everyone in police circles knew, was known to be like death by poison; the corpse of the case could be easily exhumed to prove the blunder.

'For someone to attack a man of ninety kilos, that
someone
would have to be far bigger,' Vikram uttered.

'Or smarter.' Rita looked at him. 'The attacker was shorter for sure. The cricket bat hit on the lower back on the head, not on the crown.'

'Could he have fallen on something sharp, like a pipe or stairs...?'

'And then disposed of the bat or whatever the hard plank was?'

'We've seen Jay Desai's e-fit. How can a man his size kill Fernando?' The bewilderment showed on Vikram's face.

'Exactly like a comparatively tiny lion can attack an elephant...the world, in some way or the other, teaches everyone that everything is possible, should there be enough desire or hunger.' Rita's mind drifted away yet again. It was a visceral thought, a mere intuition as of now, but if it was Jay Desai — a man with a deep-rooted contempt for men — he must have lived with the hatred for years. Hate, like love, was a passionate feeling, but unlike love, hate didn't have vivid colours; it was monochrome and for someone to live with a hatred of that magnitude for so long, it must have been extremely taxing for the brain. Hatred, surely, couldn’t remain passive for long; it was now impelling him to kill the object of his hatred.

If Jay Desai ran off from the orphanage in 2000 and Fernando was killed in 2005, where had Jay Desai been for five years? "
Quinquennium," Sexy
would have surely referred to the period of five years with a fancy word, Rita smiled; she was putting into practice the age-old maxim to trick her brain: humour yourself to keep your sanity in such times.