Chain of Custody (14 page)

Gowda waited for him to put the glass down. ‘And you think she is smart because she is a Gowda?' he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

‘Yes, sir … no, sir,' Santosh blubbered. Then with an effort, he collected himself and said, ‘Sir, she is very intelligent. I just mentioned she is a Gowda. It's not connected to the case. I was just passing on a bit of information. Inconsequential trivia, actually.'

Gowda smiled. ‘Good! And,' he continued, ‘if you believe in something, stand by it. Or you will never get ahead in life. You can't let someone browbeat you into changing your mind simply because it's not their point of view. Gowdas are strong people, you know,' he added with a twinkle in his eye.

Santosh flushed. He didn't know whether he wanted to hug the man or strangle him.

‘And now there is something we must get done right away,' Gowda said, reaching for the phone. ‘Get the flower seller to describe the woman to the portrait artist. Not the one we will be allotted but a friend of mine who used to be at the forensic lab.'

‘Sir, won't we be breaking rules?' Santosh asked.

Gowda took a deep breath. Santosh bit his lip nervously, waiting for the explosion. Was Gowda counting under his breath, he wondered in dismay. He was known to do that or drink a glass of water, when he was trying to curb his irritability.

‘Sometimes we need to get around the rules in the interests of the victim,' Gowda enunciated, as though speaking to a particularly slow dog. ‘Our priority here should be the missing child and not whether we are following the rules. If we put this request through the official channels, Nandita will be in some brothel before the artist here decides to switch on the system. If we have a reasonable likeness, we can show it around.'

‘You mean, send it to other stations?' Santosh asked.

‘Hmm … not really, but to some others as well. Fixers, pimps, prostitutes, touts … I am sure that Ratna has a few contacts too,' Gowda said, dialling the number of the forensic artist.

‘Shenoy,' he said, ‘I need a favour.'

Santosh saw Gowda smile. The man knew how to smile after all.

Ratna and Santosh sat in the back of the jeep while Gowda got into the front with PC David. He pressed a button on the dashboard searching for an FM station. There was one that played Hindi music all day long. Neither David nor Santosh spoke even though their eyes met in the mirror. Gowda generally didn't approve of music being played in the official vehicle. What was going on in his mind, they wondered. Only
Ratna looked pleased as a lilting song came on, ‘
Sheela ki jawani …
' Gowda adjusted the volume and slumped into the seat, brooding at the traffic as they headed towards Shivaji Nagar.

‘You like this song?' Santosh asked, seeing Ratna mouth the words silently.

She nodded. Santosh swallowed. He had imagined her taste would veer towards the semi-classical or even the Kannada Bhaavageetha, not this cacophony from Bollywood masquerading as music.

As if on cue, Gowda reached across and turned off the music, mumbling, ‘Rubbish!'

The streets of Shivaji Nagar were bustling as usual. In the evening, it became an exotic bazaar of colour, scents and sounds. People teeming everywhere; some who had come in for a quick bargain before heading to the bus stand; earnest shoppers with a list; tourists who had been told the best bargains were to be found here. This was a Bangalore far removed from the plate glass malls of branded merchandise and credit-card-flashing customers. This city within a city didn't distinguish between clerk and tout, pimp and priest. You were not judged by your accent or clothes, your haircut or the bag on your shoulder. You were here because you had something to pick up. And there they were: the push carts of gewgaws, clothes, sweets, vegetables, dry fruits, plastic basins, flowers, fruits, teacups, porcelain jars, shirts and factory-reject shoes. You could pick up anything you wanted by wandering through the streets of Shivaji Nagar. You just needed to know where to look and then bargain as if your very life depended on it.

Summer had begun in earnest and the heat pressed down on man, animal, building and tarmac. The fruit sellers and
kulfi vendors did brisk business. Some of the stalls offered fruit juices, milk shakes, faloodas and lassi in tall cold glasses. People thronged around, allowing the cold sweetness to quench their thirst and dull the edge of the heat. Some others drank tea. The old timers knew that worked better than the cold drinks. The hot tea made you sweat and kept you cooler longer.

David manoeuvred the jeep carefully through the evening traffic, finally finding a parking spot near the Basilica.

Gowda turned to Santosh. ‘So we are here again.'

Santosh nodded. It had all begun here: Bhuvana and what followed. He stumbled as he walked away from the jeep.

Gowda grabbed his arm, ‘Are you all right?' he asked softly.

‘I am,' Santosh said. ‘I tripped, that's all.'

Santosh turned abruptly and walked back to the Bolero. He opened the door and leaned inside.

‘Looks like he has forgotten something,' ACWO Ratna said.

Gowda nodded. For a fleeting moment, their gazes met and both of them looked away. Neither wanted to acknowledge that Santosh stood with his back to the Basilica.

They heard a door slam. PC David had stepped out of the Bolero, giving Santosh the space to compose himself. Gowda felt a rare sense of pride. Such tacit understanding from his men filled him with a glimmer of hope.

He thought of a film he had watched a long time ago, in which a policeman had proclaimed: ‘There is a heart beating beneath this khaki uniform.'

The theatre had erupted in a sound cloud of boos, jeers and cat calls. Policemen were expected to be boors, and most of them lived up to that image with no real effort.

Santosh gripped the edge of the seat to steady himself. He felt a flutter in his chest. For the last seven months, he had told himself that when he went into Shivaji Nagar next, it wouldn't affect him. The place had nothing to do with what had happened to him. In the sanctuary of his home, he had sipped his herbal concoction and told himself that when it was time, he would hold himself upright and let everyone see that Santosh may have been scarred in the battle but he hadn't lost the war.

But now that he was here, the horrific events of the evening of 8 September came back to him. Bhuvana and he in the autorickshaw. The still factory. The manja thread cutting into his throat. He shuddered and felt beads of sweat pop up on his brow. Get a grip on yourself, he muttered again and again like a mantra. Within his head, his inner voice that had taken on Gowda's cadence and timbre drawled, ‘Are you going to make us wait here all evening?'

He clenched his muscles and turned around. He shut the vehicle door gently, took a deep breath and walked towards Gowda and Ratna. ‘I just needed a moment,' he stated baldly.

Gowda nodded. Then he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘Where is the flower seller?' he asked.

Santosh felt Ratna dart a glance in his direction. He pretended not to see it as he matched his stride with Gowda's. He soon felt her at his side. ‘This way,' she said, leading them towards a line of handcarts piled with vegetables and a mountain of pineapples. The flower seller, a thin woman with a beaky nose and her hair pulled back in a bun-like knot, sat amidst them on a stool with a slightly larger upturned crate in front of her. On it were balls of jasmine garlands and one of bright yellow chrysanthemums. She was talking animatedly to a man who stood by her side even as her fingers worked on
their own, weaving a garland of jasmine buds – two buds in one hand, and with the other hand knotting them in place with banana fibre. The man disappeared as he saw them approach.

She frowned when she saw Ratna.

‘Let me speak to her,' Ratna said under her breath to the two men, afraid they would say something that would make the flower seller mutinous and uncooperative.

Gowda nodded. He paused near the cart of pineapples, close enough to hear what was being discussed. Santosh hovered by the cart of vegetables. Gowda saw Santosh examine an eggplant. Did the boy really know how to buy vegetables? But taking a cue from him, he picked up a pineapple.

‘What now?' the flower seller said through clenched teeth as she bit through the banana fibre.

‘I want you to describe the woman to the police artist,' Ratna said.

The flower seller's eyes narrowed. ‘What if I don't remember?' she said, starting on another mound of buds.

‘Are you saying you don't remember or you choose not to remember?' Ratna's voice was hard.

Santosh flinched at her tone. Gowda smiled. The girl had balls. Sweet-talking her wouldn't get Santosh anywhere.

The woman shrugged.

Ratna leaned forward and hissed, ‘You really don't want me poking around your buds and flowers, bra and petticoat, do you?'

The woman's eyes darted this way and that. It wouldn't do her reputation any good to have a young girl talk to her in that tone of voice.

Ratna straightened. ‘Get someone to sit here and mind your business.'

The woman sighed. ‘It's peak time …'

Ratna folded her arms. ‘Your peak hours are from 8 p.m. onwards. You know that as well as I do. No one's going to buy your little pouches of ganja in broad daylight. Neither you nor they are so stupid. We'll have you back by the time your real customers turn up.'

Santosh expelled his breath in admiration. She was only as old as he was, perhaps a few months younger, but she seemed to have all the worldliness of Gajendra when dealing with criminals. In a strange way, her feistiness excited him.

What did she have on the woman, Gowda wondered.

The portrait artist Shenoy was on his way to a restaurant nearby that Gowda had decided on. It looked more like a park with gazebos and a garden space around, Ratna thought as she and the flower seller walked towards it while Gowda and Santosh followed in the police vehicle. She realized that Gowda had chosen it for that very reason. They wouldn't be noticed.

‘I knew they were with you!' the flower seller sniffed as she saw the two men draw closer to the table they were seated at. ‘The older one was looking at the pineapple as if it might bite him. And the younger one was fingering the eggplants as if they were his goolies.'

Ratna flushed. ‘Watch your mouth,' she snapped.

‘Why? Don't policemen have balls?' the flower seller persisted, enjoying Ratna's discomfiture.

‘Whether they do or don't is not your business,' Ratna said in a furious voice.

Gowda's eyebrows rose. ‘What are you talking about?' he asked as he pulled up a chair.

‘Nothing,' Ratna murmured.

‘Policemen's goolies,' the flower seller said, waiting to revel in the embarrassment that would pop up on the men's faces. Santosh spluttered and choked on the water he was sipping.

Gowda's eyebrows rose higher, but he didn't allow any emotion to show on his face even as Ratna hissed, ‘Shut up!'

‘What would you like to drink?' Gowda asked, beckoning to a waiter who didn't seem very interested.

‘Rum and water,' the woman said with a bland expression.

‘Oii Kamala, do you realize who you're with?' Ratna said, her eyes narrowing in anger. ‘This isn't your wine shaap and we are not your cronies you share a quarter with.'

Santosh looked at Ratna. Was Ratna really as worldly wise as she sounded? He had met other women ASIs, women inspectors, but they had all spent years in the force. How did Ratna know about such things? What had she done before she entered the service?

Gowda waved an arm airily. ‘A Khoday's triple X and water for her. What about you, Ratna and Santosh? Whisky, brandy, gin?' he asked.

Ratna smiled. Santosh swallowed.

‘Three coffees,' Gowda said, wanting to reach out and box Santosh's ears. Couldn't the boy understand a joke?

The artist and the drinks arrived together. Shenoy looked at the tableaux before him and his eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline.

‘I wouldn't do this for anyone but you, sir,' the portrait artist said, before pulling a chair out.

‘I know,' Gowda said, holding out his hand to the man. The portrait artist shook Gowda's hand. Santosh wondered what the story was. The flower seller took a deep drink of her rum and
water. She wiped her mouth and said, ‘Can we get started? Some of us have to get back to work …'

Gowda frowned, and the flower seller's mouth gulped air. Good, Ratna thought. Time he stopped being so easy on her. That was the trouble with petty criminals. Their sense of self-importance made them forget they were there on sufferance more than anything else.

‘Quiet!' Santosh said. Ratna darted a look at him. Maybe he wasn't as meek as he made himself out to be.

Shenoy, as if on cue, opened his bag and pulled out a sheaf of cards.

‘What were her eyes like?' he asked, taking out a pad and a thick, flat pencil.