Chain of Custody (26 page)

The bastard guard was probably paying him back for that. He slammed the intercom down.

From the farther end of the pool, he heard a plop. A frog. He shuddered. He loved swimming in the night and apparently, so did the frogs. While he could tolerate a pool with shrieking children, he drew a line at frogs. He hauled himself up. The pool
ladder was for kids and women; men didn't use ladders unless they were decrepit. And that he wasn't. He dried himself briskly, put a t-shirt on, drank all the water in the water bottle he carried to the pool and walked back to his house.

He looked at his watch. It was a quarter to nine. He had a conference call at eleven with a colleague in London before they closed for the weekend.

The villa in the gated community had been a good idea. The one hour it took him to drive from the city put a physical and mental distance between work and him. And a man needed respite. Especially someone like him, a true-blue workaholic who was inclined to work through every waking moment.

The gate lights were on and so was the portico light at Shangri La. His heaven on earth.

He latched the gate and paused for a moment in the driveway that wound alongside the lawns to the house. The rose bushes were heavy with flower. The champak tree across the road was in bloom. Their fragrance filled the warm night. The hollyhocks his gardener had planted were almost as tall as him and so laden with deep pink flowers that the darkness turned them into burgundy. He stopped to look at his garden of fragrances and shadows. He was filled with a strange emotion. What was it? Happiness or well-being? He didn't know and didn't particularly care as long as it felt like every knot in his shoulders had opened out. The new masseuse was good. He made a mental note to book an appointment at the spa for Sunday morning. Get a facial, manicure and pedicure too. Maybe touch up up the grey in his hair as well. He had seen Rekha glance at it.

Friday evenings were customary three-drinks days. He would pour himself a single malt as he walked to the bathroom and keep it on the cabinet. He would take little sips as he showered
and dressed. The second single malt, a more peaty one, was for when he sat in his sunken living room with some music on. He was going through a Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan phase. The man may have eaten himself to death, displaying a complete absence of self-restraint, but he had a voice that caused curlicues in his chest. In recent times, he hadn't come close to that feeling except when he listened to music with a drink in his hand. The third drink, after dinner, was cognac taken sitting in the balcony off his bedroom. He allowed himself a smoke then.

His phone beeped. He had called for a team meeting at eleven in the morning. He checked for messages. There were ten work messages and that text he had been hoping for. He smiled. Was he being a callow teenager? He didn't feel his age and he was as fit as a man of thirty years. He stood on the garden path and texted back: What time are you coming? Can't wait to see you. ({})

As he opened his door, he heard the creak of the garden gate. He insisted that the gardener didn't oil the hinges of the gate. That way he knew when someone entered his property. There was nothing to fear in this neighbourhood. The gated community had 24-hour security and CCTV. He turned. ‘Oh, it's you!' he said with a frown. Then his eyes widened in surprise.

Part 2

14 M
ARCH
, S
ATURDAY

9.30 a.m.

G
owda felt the beginning of a headache; a low thump in the back of his skull which he knew would soon become a nasty pounding.

Who was this Dr Sanjay Rathore? And why had someone bashed his head in? Even at first glance he could see this wasn't a burglary gone wrong. Was it a crime of passion or an act of revenge? Had someone bumped him off because he knew too much? Or because he hadn't budged enough?

‘Are you all right?' Head Constable Gajendra asked.

He wondered if the inspector remembered that he had helped him into bed, put the fan on and drawn a sheet over him. What had Gowda been drinking? He had never seen him so amiable or incoherent.

Suddenly Gowda saw a familiar couple outside the gate. ‘What are Laurel and Hardy doing here?' He turned to Gajendra.

‘They live here.' Gajendra smiled.

‘I would like to speak to them.'

‘Now?'

‘No, at their clubhouse. I want to see what that looks like as well'

Gowda and Gajendra walked towards the clubhouse. The streets were lined with trees and at every street corner was an old-fashioned street lamp. The houses were gigantic and the gardens mostly manicured. Mamtha would have approved and gushed about ‘neighbours like us' and the amenities. Urmila's eyes would have widened and dropped with a hint of disdain. She was too toffee-nosed to approve of gated communities. As for himself, he would have felt under scrutiny all the time.

‘Nice layout,' Gajendra said, pausing to pick a flower.

‘Don't.' Gowda pointed to the little board that said ‘Don't pick flowers by order.'

‘Whose order?' Gajendra frowned.

‘Laurel and Hardy's,' Gowda said with a straight face.

Gajendra guffawed and converted it to a cough.

At the clubhouse, a granite-clad building, a reception committee awaited them: Laurel and Hardy and two others. Gowda recognized the man from the group outside the gate. The man who had said he was president. A portly man stood by his side. The prime minister?

‘Sit down, Gajendra,' Gowda said to the head constable, who hovered at his elbow like a curious aunt.

‘Dr Sanjay Rathore,' Gowda said, clearing his throat.

‘A gem of a man,' the president finished. ‘A well-known lawyer, and an asset to our community.'

‘Save the eulogy for his funeral,' Laurel mumbled. ‘He was a first-class bastard.'

Gowda darted a look at Laurel, who seemed to live in t-shirts with strange captions. This one read: I am Page 3 in Kazakhstan.

‘And tight-fisted. He owed us three years' maintenance, Inspector. And the committee was scared to censure him. He had a reputation for saying, I will see you in court,' Laurel said, looking at Hardy to corroborate.

But Hardy was gazing at his fingernails as if they held the secret to the anti-matter theory.

‘Vinod …' The president touched Laurel's elbow. ‘Calm down. The man is dead; murdered.'

He turned to Gowda. ‘Inspector, the lawyer refused to join the Green the Neighbourhood movement we started. Since then, Vinod has disliked him. Gentlemen,' he continued, ‘this is a murder investigation and they are really not interested in the politics of our layout.'

‘Oh, but I am,' Gowda said, tilting his chair back. ‘Each one of you here is a potential suspect unless you have a cast-iron alibi.'

The men's faces paled. ‘Suspect!' Hardy said in almost a whisper. ‘You think I murdered that lawyer?'

‘I didn't say that, Mr …?' Gowda's voice was soft.

‘Chatterjee. Dibakar Chatterjee,' Hardy said. ‘Retired from IRS in 2010. I am a retired government servant. A Class I officer,' he added as an afterthought. Unlike the others, his tone implied.

Gowda nodded. ‘We are going to examine the CCTV footage and the register. One of my officers will speak to each one of you to ascertain where you were last night. And speak to the live-in help and security guards in the layout. It's routine in any investigation.'

It was Laurel who croaked, ‘But they could have come by the north wall …' and abruptly stopped. He turned to the president. ‘If you had fixed the wall when Dibakar and I asked you to, there would have been no breach of security.'

Gowda sighed. Where was Santosh? He didn't think anyone in the gated community had anything to do with the murder. But you left nothing to chance in a murder investigation. Santosh could be trusted to weed out every detail from each one of the
residents. PC Byrappa would work on the live-in help and the security guards. He would ferret out every piece of gossip. All he needed was a glint in someone's eye.

Gowda glanced at his watch. The forensics team should be here soon. He lit a cigarette. His first for the day. As he inhaled, he felt a familiar sense of ease flood his system. Who was he kidding? He was never going to be able to give up. From twenty a day, he had brought it down to ten. But that was it, he decided as he tapped the ash from his cigarette.

Santosh stopped his bike and rushed towards Gowda. ‘What's happened, sir?'

‘Gajendra will brief you. I need you to step in, Santosh,' Gowda said. And then, after a pause, ‘There's some CCTV footage.'

Santosh nodded. ‘I have my hard disk. I'll get it transferred to that. How long back should we go?'

‘As far back as is available,' Gowda said. ‘Will your hard disk be able to hold that much?'

Santosh grinned. ‘It's 2 TB.'

‘Oh,' Gowda said, not knowing what he was saying oh to.

‘I'll bring it to the station house, sir,' Santosh said, fumbling in his rucksack.

‘Remind me again, how old are you, Santosh?' Gowda asked.

‘Twenty-four, sir.' There was a question in his eye which Gowda chose to ignore.

Santosh was just four years older than Roshan but he was already an adult unlike his son. Speaking of which, where was the rascal? He hadn't come home last night. Or had he?

Gowda felt his headache resume again. When the forensics team returned, he would go home for a nap. He needed a clear head for what lay ahead.

‘Anything on the landlord of the building?' Gowda asked.

‘No, sir. The rental agreement is via a lawyer in Pune. I've got the number.'

Gowda nodded.

4.00 p.m.

Gowda rode into the Neelgubbi police station. He had gone home when the headache threatened to split his skull. He had left Gajendra with the forensic team and had PC David drive him home.

All he remembered was taking a swill of water before dropping into his unmade bed. When he woke up three hours later, his mouth was dry but there was that curious stillness in his head that said the headache had ached itself out.

He stepped out of the room. The door to Roshan's room was ajar. The rucksack was still there; the bed had been made even if sloppily. Where was he?

In the kitchen Gowda found a set of covered dishes. Shanthi had come in at some point to cook and clean. How many people had keys to his home?

That was the other thing, he thought, as he heated the bisi bele bath. Who else had keys to the lawyer's home? They needed to get a list.

He opened the small container of mixture. There was also a bowl of kachumber. If Gowda's mother had been around, this was exactly what he would have demanded of her. Comfort food, he told himself as he served the heated rice and vegetables onto a plate.

Somewhere out there was that child, Nandita. They had a whole set of leads but were nowhere close to knowing where it would take them and if it would end in Nandita. Meanwhile,
this was what they called a high-profile murder and everyone's attention would be diverted towards it.

Gowda stood under the shower after he had eaten. His mother used to say, you mustn't bathe after a meal. But he had no more time to lose and Amma would have to be content with the fact that he didn't soap his belly as he stood under the cold water. As he dressed, he was glad that neither Mamtha nor Urmila was around to distract him. He would call Roshan in a bit to check if he was fine and then he would go to work.

Gowda walked into his room to see a distinctly harassed-looking Santosh, a vexed Ratna and a very smug ACP Vidyaprasad.

Gowda saluted, wondering what the ACP was doing in the police station on a Saturday afternoon.

‘Good afternoon, sir,' Gowda said.

Vidyaprasad looked at his watch pointedly. ‘I say, Gowda, this is highly irresponsible. Where were you?'

‘I had a migraine, sir, and needed to rest,' Gowda said quietly.

‘Migraine or hangover?'

The smirk made Gowda want to reach out and sink his fist into the man's face.

The ACP's gaze lingered on Ratna. Gowda saw Santosh bristle. Then his phone buzzed. He picked it up. ‘Take this,' he said, offering his phone to Santosh. ‘Put it on speaker so Ratna can join in too. It's from the shelter.'

ACP frowned. He didn't like the idea of his audience dissipating. There was no point in tearing Gowda apart if there was no one to witness his humiliation.

‘This is a high-profile murder case and you go off for your siesta. Highly irresponsible,' he said again.

‘I wouldn't have been able to function, sir,' Gowda said. ‘Migraines are very debilitating.'

‘The TV crews are on their way and I need to make a statement,' the ACP said, turning his chair this way and that. ‘You don't mind my using your chair, do you?'

‘No, sir.' Gowda shook his head. And then, unable to resist it, he added what Urmila said to him on and off, ‘Mi casa es su casa!'

‘Come again?'

‘That's Spanish for my house is your house.'

ACP Vidyaprasad pretended not to hear him. Instead, he asked him, ‘So, what am I going to tell them?'

‘The usual.' Gowda didn't bother hiding the disdain in his voice. ‘We are investigating. We have some very strong leads. We expect to close the case and apprehend the murderer shortly.'

‘Are you mocking me, Gowda?' Vidyaprasad said, sitting up straight.

‘Why would I?' Gowda said in his most artless voice.

The ACP went back to swivelling the chair from left to right, right to left. The creaking began.

‘And what is this Nandita case? Your maid's daughter, I hear …'

A missing girl wasn't something that came under an ACP's purview. Who was the mole in the station, Gowda wondered. Someone who thought it necessary to inform both Mamtha and ACP Vidyaprasad about the goings-on his life. Someone who tipped off Mary before an arrest could be made.

‘A twelve-year old girl has gone missing,' Gowda began. ‘She has been missing since 4 March.'

‘Ten days! What are you doing here? Anyway, if you haven't traced her by now, she's probably in some brothel or dead.'

‘We are doing our best.'

‘Save your best for the lawyer murder case. One of the SIs can follow up on the missing girl. If you ask me, it's best that she
stays missing. Easier on the family and us,' the ACP said. He paused his swivelling and leaned forward. ‘The commissioner is taking a personal interest in this. So …' The ACP resumed his swivelling and Gowda waited.

At the next turn of the chair, the extendable stem of the single leg sank into the groove and the ACP felt himself sinking. A hand shot up, groping for something to hold on to – table edge, in-tray, paperweight.

Gowda stepped forward to extricate the man from beneath the desk he was wedged under. He dragged the table away to ease the ACP out.

‘What nonsense!' the ACP fumed, trying to wriggle out. Gowda offered him a hand. The ACP took it reluctantly and hoisted himself up. ‘This place is a mess.'

‘I sent a request for some office furniture months ago,' Gowda said, pretending he didn't understand.

‘Humph …' the ACP said as he strode away. At the door, he turned. ‘I want results. Soon.' He didn't bother hiding the implied threat – or you are going to be in serious trouble.