A Cut-Like Wound (40 page)

T
wo things occurred to Gowda almost at the same instant. One, that Dr Robert King was very good at what he did. Two, that there definitely had been something going on between the two of them.

Call me Robert, he had said in his email in response to Gowda’s, which Santosh had keyed in and sent for him. In his mind, the phrase struck. Call me Robert had studied the case notes and written again. In a strange way, all he had done was arrive at the same conclusion that Gowda had, but he had done so in a cohesive fashion, attributing whys and wherefores and making it seem much more plausible. There were charts and graphs and examples cited of casual grimy horror that made it seem less like speculation and conjecture and resonated with the authority of actual findings.

Gowda thought of his high-school maths master, a thin man with a narrow face and a pair of spectacles perched on his bony nose. ‘Show the workings, Borei,’ he’d admonish Gowda. ‘I need to see how you arrived at the answer. I know your answer’s right, but I need to see how you found it. The workings are very important. That’s what will convince the examiner.’

Gowda had never been able to do the workings. Then or now. Which was why his instinct was suspect, while Call me Robert’s analysis was being read with great attention by Stanley.

He watched Stanley’s eyes scan the printout. Word for word.

Gowda chewed his lip. He thought of the last paragraph of the email:
And how’s U? Do tell my dear friend that the English summer isn’t as spectacular without her gracing the horizon
.

You could put that down to affection. But there had been a photograph as well. Of Urmila and Call me Robert in a garden, each wearing what looked to Gowda like soppy smiles. Call me Robert was marking territory, Gowda realized. What was going on between the two of them? Gowda chewed his lip some more.

Stanley looked up. Gowda, it seemed, was devouring most of his lower lip. He was oblivious to the goings-on at the station house. Outside, he could hear a woman wailing. Someone was trying to comfort her. Through the window he saw Gajendra stride towards them. Gajendra was the kind of man who gave policemen a bad name. Arrogant, foul-mouthed and certain that he inhabited an upper echelon in the universe that allowed no questioning of its authority. But he was unswervingly loyal and matchless at defusing situations. Through the window, he saw Gajendra glower down at the woman and then turn to the man. Gajendra stuck his little finger in his ear and wiggled it. Then he said something to the man, who stared at the policeman, mouth open in astonishment. Or was it horror? Hard to tell. The next thing they knew, the man and woman were scuttling away! Stanley smiled.

‘Borei,’ he said, turning his attention to Gowda, whose lip must be mash by now, he thought.

Gowda looked up. ‘What do you think?’

‘He’s corroborating what you’ve been saying all along.’ Stanley flipped the sheets of paper.

Gowda shrugged. ‘The assailant’s a man; there is no doubt about it. That kind of injury necessitates some strength. If the victims were drunk or drugged, they would have fought back. But that wasn’t the case. However, the earring, and the statements of the parking attendant at the theatre, the restaurant owner and the auto driver indicate a woman’s presence. So either it’s a eunuch or a man dressed up as a woman. Nothing has been stolen. And apart from Roopesh, whose body was too decomposed for us to discover anything, all the other victims seem to have had sex. So the assailant’s motive is not material effects but sexual gain. But why kill them? That’s what I couldn’t understand. And Dr King seems to point us there.’

Stanley’s eyes settled on a paragraph. Childhood trauma. Low self-esteem. Power hungry. The desperate need to feel in control and hence the use of the ligature. The phrases leapt off the page. And something else. In most serial killers, there is a trigger that sets off the killing spree.

‘And you think you know what the trigger is?’ Stanley frowned. ‘These are all suppositions, Borei.’

‘I am not certain, but if you continue the surveillance on the corporator’s house, I will know for sure,’ Gowda said, playing with the paperweight.

Stanley’s phone erupted to life. He peered at the screen and then picked it up. ‘Tell me,’ he said. A couple of minutes later, he put the phone down thoughtfully.

‘The boy, Sanjay, he was killed yesterday,’ Stanley said.

Gowda nodded.

‘I heard,’ Gowda said. ‘Ibrahim must have told them that he had given us the boy’s name.’

‘That’s what I thought too. But his death had nothing to do with Ibrahim. Nepali Ricki’s the one. And he’s in hiding. No, the boys have been going through the deceased’s phone. The contacts list had been completely deleted. But there were a few draft messages. All to someone called Bhuvana. Nothing extraordinary about it. The only thing is the number belongs to a set of SIMs that the corporator has in his name,’ Stanley said. ‘So, I am keeping the surveillance on.’

Gowda doodled on the pad. Bhuvana. Who could she be? Why would the corporator’s SIM be with her?

‘Shall we bring the eunuch in for questioning?’ Gowda asked.

Stanley shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

SUNDAY, 28 AUGUST

G
owda and Santosh walked into the Country Club Resort on Doddaballapur Road. ‘You are certain he is here, sir,’ Santosh asked.

Gowda nodded.

As they entered the lobby, curious glances darted their way. They were not in uniform, but something about them suggested these were men with a purpose other than recreation on their minds.

‘Where do you think he is?’ Santosh asked, his eyes
drinking in the details of the resort. The potted plants and deep cane sofas with bluish-green cushions. The nature studies on the walls and plate-glass windows that overlooked green lawns. A giant ponytail palm rose towards the sky in the middle of the atrium, and a whole wall was a bank of creepers.

‘Let’s look around. He must be either by the pool or in the bar,’ Gowda said absently.

He must bring his father here one Sunday. He would like it. The expanse of green, the conspicuous luxury, the notion of his son taking him to an expensive place. He would protest about the cost of everything and say, ‘You must be taking bribes, how else can you afford to bring me here?’ Saying which, he would go on to enjoy himself thoroughly.

Maybe he would ask Urmila to go with them. He would claim she had a membership and they were her guests. He would ask Michael along too just to even the numbers and so his father didn’t suspect a rat.

He was certain Urmila would be game. She would like it too. That he was weaving her into his everyday and his small deceptions as much as he could.

They found him by the pool with a blue-and-white towel wrapped around his hips. He was wearing sunglasses and was stretched out on a sun lounger under an umbrella. A fat gold chain with a pendant of a goddess studded with rubies nestled on his bare chest.

They watched a steward place on the table alongside, two glasses of something cold, decorated with a cherry and a slice of lime.

They waited for the steward to leave before padding their way to his side. He was napping.

‘Good morning, Corporator sir,’ Gowda said.

The corporator woke up startled. He pulled the sunglasses off his face and sat up frowning. ‘Now what? This is harassment…’

Gowda frowned. ‘What makes you so frightened of us? Someone invited us to come over. And when we spotted you, we thought we’d come by and say hello.’

Gowda dragged up a lounger and sat on it. ‘But now that we’ve met, let me ask you what I needed to ask you anyway.’

The corporator’s mouth tightened into a line. ‘What is it, Gowda?’

‘Where is the eunuch who lives in your home?’

The corporator frowned.

‘We have been looking for her since yesterday evening but she seems to have gone missing,’ Gowda said.

‘I don’t know where Akka is. She is a free agent and can come and go as she pleases,’ the corporator bit out.

‘In which case, you can tell us this. Who is Bhuvana?’

‘Who?’

‘Precisely my question. Who is Bhuvana? A young man was found murdered a couple of days ago. In his phone were messages to someone called Bhuvana. The number, we discovered, belongs to a SIM that is in your name.’

Gowda reached across, took the corporator’s drink and sipped from it. It was fresh lime soda.

The corporator stiffened. ‘I don’t know any Bhuvana. It must be a mistake. I tell you there is no one called Bhuvana in my family. My sisters are called Jayanthi and Saraswati. Their daughters are Ammu and Ratna.’

‘What about the eunuch? Would she know?’ Santosh asked.

The corporator glared at him. ‘Akka runs my house for me. But she doesn’t run my life.’

‘Perhaps one of her friends has been using your number,’ Santosh suggested.

‘That is highly unlikely.’ The corporator dropped his gaze.

‘You are hiding something from us,’ Gowda said. ‘It is strange that you didn’t ask us who the young man who died was. Something tells me you know already.’

‘What’s going on here, Gowda?’ ACP Vidyaprasad stood behind them, glaring, taking in the scene.

‘Are you here in an official capacity?’ the ACP demanded.

Gowda shrugged.

‘If you are not, please leave my guest alone.’

Gowda slammed his drink down on the table, spilling its contents and causing the other glass to topple. ‘Enjoy your Sunday!’

On the way out, Gowda spotted the ACP’s new Honda City parked to a side. It gave him immense pleasure to run his key along its side from bonnet to boot.

‘Sir, what are you doing?’ Santosh’s horrified voice asked.

‘Are you here in an official capacity?’ Gowda mimicked his senior officer’s tone. ‘If not, please leave me alone.’

They got him that night as he rode back from SR Wines, a little after Kothanur. He had run out of rum and had stepped out at half past eight. When he turned off the main road onto the small road that led towards Greenview Residency, where his house was, a Scorpio came out of the shadows and nearly ran into him. Gowda went off the road and into the ditch. ‘What the fuck…’

‘Borei, what’s happening?’ Urmila’s voice rang through the night as he sought to gain control of the heavy Bullet.

He had been talking to Urmila on the Bluetooth as he rode back, telling her about the resort.

But before he could answer, he saw the SUV stop.

From where he was he saw the man called King Kong step out. But he stayed by the car and three others walked towards him.

Gowda had just about enough time to get off the Bullet before they descended on him. Through the haze of pain from that first blow, Gowda heard the splintering of glass. The headlight of his bike. He hoped to god they would leave his Bullet alone. Nothing was said as they slapped him around, kicking his shins, punching him in his gut. One of the punches landed on his face, breaking his nose.

Gowda felt his knees give way. But even as he tottered and slid into a heap on the ground, he realized the corporator had a secret he was trying to safeguard.

MONDAY, 29 AUGUST

When he opened his eyes, it felt as though someone had taken a hammer to his head and to the rest of his body. Every inch of it ached. He touched his face gingerly. It seemed like someone else’s face. A bandage seemed to hold his nose in place.