Doosra (3 page)

Hadn't Don McLean warned about fire being the Devil's only friend”?

***

The police would later discover that two bullets had been fired. One into the chest of Ron Jogani from close range — close enough to singe his T-shirt and skin, and the other one on a handcuff behind the commode.

Three Months Later

G
OA
, I
NDIA
.

T
here are, in living memory, two distinct periods in history: pre 9/11 and post 9/11. The rights enjoyed by individuals in any country could no longer be enjoyed if the world — in the words of Darwin — did not adapt to the new world order. 9/11 changed the world. Not all changes precipitated by it were bad — though no one in their right mind should even argue that what happened on that day was evil, sinister even — some changes were essential, and had these been in place before that dark day in human history, perhaps the disaster could have been controlled, if not completely avoided.

Then the November bombings in Mumbai in 2008 roused even the sleepiest of governments. And now, DCP Rita Ferreira mused, despite being a senior police officer she wasn't permitted to carry her service revolver on a commercial airliner. OK, the airport officials were polite enough not to pat-search her, considering she had been in the news all over the country after having chased down a serial killer only a few months earlier. Not to mention that the two uniformed policemen who had escorted her to the security gate provided instant recognition. She was waved in with deference.

The flight took off on time. Rita reclined into the seat. Fortunately, as there was no one else in her row she parked her handbag on the middle seat and contemplated the past three months she had spent in Goa under the circumstances.

She had been shot at while nabbing the serial killer, and the bullet had grazed her shoulder. The physical recovery had been quick, but the psychological trauma — albeit unknown to Rita — needed to be dealt with. DCP Rita Ferreira had been discharged from duty after the shootout in her last case. Much as she had wanted to carry on — she was chagrined when they had signed her off: “official procedure”, they had said — she was ordered to take time off. Having been taken captive or overpowered by a criminal — if only for a few minutes — and use of firearms usually mandated that the police officer involved be sent on statutory leave and psychological analysis. There seemed little point in challenging that. However, what had commenced as a two-week break had become a three-month hiatus as Rita's therapist disagreed to give her a clean chit to resume her position in the police force in the initial time allocated. Fortunately for her, Rita didn't have to live in her Mumbai flat. She had sojourned to one of her ancestral properties in the small village of Benaulim on the south coastline of Goa. Benaulim has been part of Goa lore for generations:
Parshurama
— the sixth avatar of Vishnu
—
had shot an arrow from somewhere above in the Western Ghats, and that arrow descended upon what came to be known as
Banavalli:
the village of the arrow. The Portuguese rechristened it to Benaulim. The place was full of natural beauty: the sound of the endless sea and the fragrance of local vegetation that Rita had grown up appreciating as a kid. It helped her recover a lot faster than if she had stayed back in Mumbai. In her mind she was ready to resume her duty, but she waited. No one in the bureaucracy, she knew, could or would override a psychological evaluation. The psychobabble of the therapist could never be vetoed. Hence she had lodged at the seaside villa she had spent her growing years in for most of those three months. It was a white, colonial house that had a huge garden in front, and the rear door unlatched on to a private beach for residents. Luckily the neighbours, too, used their properties for vacations, and hence Rita had the beach all to herself. She sunbathed in the day, enjoyed a drink at sunset, swam in the evening. She had spent days, weeks on this beach with her father. They had talked endless hours, late in the night, him telling her about growing up and looking for pastures beyond Goa: a guy, a family, maybe a career.
“Someone or something will take you away”
he had prophesised. Robert Ferreira's little girl had finally grown up. An inadvertent smile passed through her lips reminiscing the days.

There were days she supposed that she could get used to this life. She neither needed the money nor the stress. Her parents had bequeathed their only child with more than she could spend in her lifetime. And with her history of broken relationships it still looked unlikely that there would be anyone to inherit it after her. But she hadn't joined the police force for money; there were far better professions to make money if that was what one desired. Police was her calling, she always reminded herself.

However, three months and numerous sessions later, the therapist's evaluation was decisively complete and Rita was finally on a flight to recommence work. Vinay Joshi, her immediate supervisor and Joint Commissioner of Mumbai Police, had spoken to her about a case that Interpol had asked Mumbai Crime Squad to look into.

Thus began another one of Rita's chartless journeys.

It was almost getting to be a cold case, as far as the Belgian Police were concerned, but they had found some new clues that had pointed them towards Mumbai. Joshi had provided no further information, and Rita hadn't yet looked up on the web for any news regarding the same. With so little detail it would have been a sheer waste of time: how could one look at all crimes that occurred in Belgium, and how far would one go digging for a cold case?

The coincidence of the two events — her successful evaluation and the urgency of the international case was a bit baffling though. But when the bureaucratic machinery really decided to do something, she knew, it got done much faster than it took Tendulkar to score a century. Rita involuntarily smiled as the plane touched down at Mumbai. The flight had landed on the dot like it had taken off. The plane taxied for a little longer than usual, waiting for passengers from earlier flights to disembark before it docked on to the next available aerobridge.

As she collected her baggage from the carousel, her mind drifted to the case at hand. A cold case leading to
“some pointer to Mumbai”
could well mean that it would have provided the perpetrators with ample time to get away and move to Australia by now.

It would be frustrating.

It would be challenging.

But she was ready for it. She had had enough cessation from duty, and after a while it had actually grown into boredom. Her alcohol intake had also increased, which she had to consciously break the dependence on. Yes she was ready, she murmured in her brain and walked out to her driver waiting for her, and who came running the minute he saw her exit and, mocking a salute, took her luggage and walked her to her new official white Volkswagen Jetta.

'How have you been, Kuldeep?' Rita asked as she climbed into the car.

'Very much thank you, madam.' Kuldeep was a reticent man. He spoke very little and was uncomfortable whenever Rita made an attempt, but he responded, nevertheless, in his dialectal English.

There seemed little point in labouring the dialogue further.

'Home.' It was late and Rita was tired. It was better to begin work the next day, she reckoned.

Kuldeep just nodded and put the car in gear and drove to Bandra.

***

Whatever class of travel you picked in India, the car journey from the airport to your final destination ultimately coated you with a fine layer of grime, even if it is in an air-conditioned car with the windows closed. Rita unpacked, doffed her clothes and went straight into the shower. She stood five-six in socks, or without them, as she currently was under the jet flow of cold water that she needed to relax. She never considered herself beautiful — and conventionally she wasn't — but she knew well she drew glances from men of all ages. Blessed with a great metabolism, she made the most of it by never restricting her diet. She was in fantastic shape for a woman of thirty-something; like most other women she, too, maintained ambiguity of her precise age. Whenever she missed gym for more than a week — normally when in the middle of a big case — she kept on with calisthenics at home: light yoga was best for toning the body. Tawny coloured body, with not an ounce of undesired fat. Flat stomach, not well endowed — certainly not the kind that was in your face — yet curvaceous enough. 56 kilos. And a God-gifted zillion-dollar arse to top that. Beauty can be an opinion steered by preconceived notion or your upbringing; sensuality was near absolute. Sensual: that was what she was if she were to be styled in one word.

They say a woman's intuition is far greater than a man's. Combine that with police training and years of experience: a perfect marriage of nature and nurture. And above everything else DCP Rita Ferreira was a class A workaholic.

Kuldeep had a set of keys and he had got the house cleaned and filled the refrigerator with fresh bread, milk and eggs. And ice. Rita unpacked and went around her apartment looking at all the things she had missed. It was mostly full of paperbacks and music. And there it was: a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam.

Should she? Shouldn't she?

She had, on too many occasions, witnessed her father get swacked, burst into fits of laughter, get angry, get over-effusive and loud, then get all maudlin and finally apologise; all in one evening. He was never rude or violent, just noisy. All side effects of Scotch. As a result she never drank Scotch. Important precautionary measure that. She was in love with Bourbon: Jim.
Sex, lies, and Bourbon.

Should she? Shouldn't she?

What the heck! It was the last day of the three-month vacation that had been forced upon her.

A couple of large drinks down and she drifted into her unsuccessful love life. Where had she gone wrong? Yes, she'd had some relationships that didn't work — who didn't? — but she wasn't what someone would call rambunctious. Still single. As for life so for love: you couldn't let your failures cling to you. Accept defeat or loss and then breaking the old and unavailing ties tightly shut the door on the past.

All relationships are mutable by nature, she now knew. You are permitted to believe otherwise at your own peril. There will always be spillages of memory now and then, but let them not dictate your decisions or future. Move on Rita. You're not making any sacrifices; you're liberating yourself. And then, Ash Mattel, her buddy, the criminal psychologist buddy who had helped her in cracking the serial killer earlier was travelling to India next month. Cheers! With that pleasant thought she went into the kitchen, broke two eggs, scrambled them, put them on toast and called it a night.

***

Dawn was unfolding but the sun seemed to be on a late shift; no signs of it yet when Rita went for a jog. Mumbai, after a three-month sabbatical is easy to dislike at first glance — the cloying traffic, the unruly crowd, the stifling humidity and heat, but having lived in the city before Rita appreciated that it was even easier to fall in love with Mumbai and the people when you spent a few days in it again.

For some years now, fitted shirts and jeans were Rita's usual attire at work. And for a reason: she didn't have to be in uniform and she found any other outfits a little uncomfortable for the job she was in. She had got her hair cut shorter — it sat just on her shoulders, instead of falling down over them like before when she tied it into a ponytail sometimes — after the incident where a criminal she was chasing had grabbed her by the soft straight coffee brown tresses. On the way out she carried her powder blue cotton jacket to cover the Smith & Wesson she knew she'd get back when she resumed office later. She ran her fingers through her hair. Short. It was still long enough to be gripped but surely not accessible from arm's length.

Kuldeep was already waiting for her when she came down from her apartment.

Mumbai Police HQ is in the vicinity of a historic landmark called Crawford Market, and it is where the top brass of Police and the Crime Branch are stationed. The travel from Bandra was about thirteen kilometres but it took them forty-five minutes to get there. The Mumbai traffic had snarled up in the torrential rain that had started in the early hours of the morning. The pluvial waters of July had filled the potholes to the brim. Arrogant rain was still sheeting down like Arjuna's arrows and showed no intention of stopping. Its continuous thundering drops on the windshield sounded like a rap singer on steroids; the wipers struggled to keep it clear, but Kuldeep soldiered on. Rita mused as the car moved tardily through the traffic. Mumbai, she discerned wasn't so different from Delhi as the media screamed at every given opportunity. In fact no city was different from the other: the rich in their chauffeur-driven cars, the not so rich struggling in the weather on their bikes and scooters or on foot. There was, and always would be, without exception, an invisible line between the wealthy and those who aspired to be. Of course, you could win the lottery and cross over to the other side, but the not so fortunate inchoately existed on the sides largely because the fortunate needed them. Who else would clean their houses, run the laundry, repair their cars and bring their newspapers or milk or take their kids to school?