Doosra (22 page)

T
he fourth estate can make issues, make personalities, create success and define failures. When Rita woke up in the morning the news
du jour
was: I
NTERPOL LOOKING FOR A KILLER IN MUMBAI
.

It wasn't in merely one newspaper; it was in all of them. Just why they had all decided that it was the best news of the day was beyond her ken immediately. But then as she showered and had breakfast the rationale became evident. The elections were over, the monsoons had been on time, the fuel prices were in check, no VIP had died or eloped, it was a dull period for film releases, no film star was having an illicit affair, the IPL season had concluded, the Indian cricket team wasn't playing Pakistan or any other One-days for that matter, there wasn't any public unrest in the vicinity, India wasn't at war, and the Middle-East wasn't burning either. But the media channels needed news, they needed a story, they needed the revenue to pay their salaries, to justify their existence. And she had to give it to them. What with the numerous underlying problems that besieged Mumbai and the country they muckraked the forgotten murder like World War III had started in Belgium and was racing to India. Talk about slow news days. This was slow news period; it was trivia's time to shine. The news channels covered it like the Pope had been caught kicking a dog on Marine Drive.

The turd had finally hit the proverbial fan.

Rita's search of
who
the initiator of the news was had been futile. No one had succeeded in ferreting out who had leaked it to the media in the first place; no one had yet figured out who the first journo to get their hands on it either. Nevertheless, because you couldn't find something did not mean it wasn't there. Someone had excavated the whole case and laid it bare for public consumption. Mercifully, the details were sketchy, and no names were mentioned. The purported experts prattled nonstop nonsense only proving they had no clue about the issue. Their entire analysis had been picked up from Google: if-this-then-that kind of boilerplate.

However, the news that the Mumbai Police was now involved would have surely touched the ears of the perpetrators. She had no misgiving about that.

The choice Rita had had up till now had been binary: either speak to Honey Singh or keep him thinking no one was snooping around. The media had snatched away the luxury of choice.

Rather than driving to the office — there weren't any new developments or promising leads since last evening when she had left work or someone would have certainly called her — she called Vikram to accompany her to Andheri East.

'But it's late ma'am. Honey Singh would have left for work by now,' said Vikram.

'I know,' responded Rita. 'I'm not going to see him yet. I want to see his residence first. You said he lived with his mother. Let's go and meet her. We should take the picture of Sishir Singh to her. Let's see what she has to say. I have a feeling that if something's not right, it's best to see her before she is coached or coerced. But, we'll feign that we didn't know that Honey Singh wouldn't be at home at this hour. I'll think of some story till you get here.'

Mother knows best; Johnson & Johnson came a distant second,
Rita remembered the line from the old J&J advertisement.

'Got that ma'am. I'll see you in thirty minutes.'

***

Vikram arrived at Rita's place in forty minutes instead of the thirty that he'd promised. Mumbai traffic. The two drove to Mahakali Caves Road. The traffic wasn't bad and Vikram skilfully threaded through the back routes. He took the Linking road, turned right into Khar Pali Road, swung left and passed Khar station on the right, crossed the subway, turned left and turned right on to JLN Road before turning left on to NH8.

'Funny isn't it?' Rita commented when they got on to the highway.

'What?'

'Only a thoroughbred Mumbai-
wala
would take this route. I would have taken the highway as soon as I could get on it. It's so typical of Mumbai and its people, isn't it?'

'You are correct. I try to save every second I can by manoeuvring where I think I can avoid traffic.'

They drove the next fifteen minutes in silence. Looking at the traffic Rita was reminded of the crazy motorcyclist that Jatin and she had spotted. Jatin was supposed to speak to the local police station to give that joker a slap on the wrist. Had he? But with a murder investigation it was highly likely it had slipped down his priority list, and who could blame him.

As they turned left towards Mahakali Caves Road, Rita got engrossed in the rich Indian history she had as one of the elected subjects in her graduation. Despite the name that sounded like the powerful Hindu Goddess of time and death, the Mahakali Caves were, in reality, historical remnants of Buddhist caves that had been their monasteries. The nineteen black caves were chiselled out of cooled volcanic lava between the first century BC and 600 AD. The road that connected Andheri Kurla Road to these caves on the hill was called the Mahakali Caves Road. She always felt fortunate that, during the course of her work, she got to see, or at least got in the proximity of, such historical testaments that most other folks simply read about in books. She made a mental note to visit the caves when she was free some weekend. She also knew that given her workload and urgency that came with her profession a hundred and one such plans and sites were already on the list. Wishful thinking.

The car drove into the Takshila complex and, like a hammer the memory hit her on the head: she had been here investigating a previous case too. There had been a murder here earlier. The fetid stench of death she had whiffed then came back; they had found putrid remains of a man who had been rotting for months before they had discovered his corpse. That wretched smell of death might have gone from her nostrils but it would forever stay in her mind.

What was this, some hotbed of crime and deception?

It didn't exactly look like the epicentre of criminality. Decent, law-abiding citizens resided here.

Honey Singh's apartment was in the third building on the left. On the first floor. Rita looked up as she climbed out of Vikram's Gypsy. There was a small balcony that had the usual plants in pots like many other balconies across Mumbai, and a clothes stand that had some drying on. Unassuming lifestyle. Vikram locked his vehicle and they took the steps to the first floor. Rita noted there wasn't an elevator in the building either. Nothing indicated the man had several millions stashed somewhere.

The woman who opened the door wore a bubble-gum pink
salwar kameez.
She was scrawny and seemed devoid of vim and vigour; her wrinkled skin looked like someone had played origami with it one time too many. Almost cracked leather. She must have been seventy; Rita quickly calculated that Honey Singh had been a late child if he was still not thirty, which further reduced the probably of her delivering after Honey's father's demise. A woman in her forties would be far more careful when having casual sex, Rita presumed. She had a dour expression that passed a supercilious smile when she saw Rita and Vikram. 'Yes?' was all she said. She didn't appear like someone who was expecting guests or was in any mood to entertain any unannounced ones at this moment. Rita could take a calculated guess that Mrs Lucky Singh would have been considered quite a beauty when she was younger, a lot younger. Easy to assess where Honey Singh inherited his good looks from.

Then, almost abruptly, there was a change in her countenance as if Rita had just announced that she had won the lottery.

'Oh, it's you. I knew you would come. Come in... come in, why are you waiting at the door?' She seemed to have come alive.

Rita was baffled. She glanced at Vikram who appeared equally confused.

'Have we met before, Mrs Singh?' Rita politely asked as they followed their host into the living room that was at the end of a small foyer.

'No, but my instincts told me that you would come. Now tell me, what will you have, tea or coffee?'

'And why did you think I would come?'

'Because of my son, my Honey. He thinks he is some big shot, but I know everything. I am, after all, his mother, am I not?'

Rita nodded. There was certainly some confusion here. Mrs Lucky Singh had certainly taken her for someone else.

'I'm Lucky,' she said.

Wish I was too,
Rita almost voiced, remembering just in time that her name was Lucky; she wasn't talking about being fortunate.

'Nice to meet you ma'am, I'm Rita and this is Vikram.'

'Rita what?'

It took a minute for Rita to comprehend. 'Rita Ferreira, and he is Vikram Patil.' Rita deliberately left out the police ranks.

'You have separate surnames?'

This was getting nowhere.

'I'm terribly sorry, but Mrs Singh I can't follow what you mean?'

'I know you are the one he's been hiding from me for years now. I only came to know about you a few months back.'

What was Honey Singh concealing from her?

'TDon't worry
beta,
I might be old, but I'm very broad-minded. Someone from a different religion doesn't bother me one bit. My only religion is that my Honey should be happy.' Lucky Singh's eyes were cheerful now, the pupils dilated; she looked genuinely happy.

Jesus!

Rita's mind eked out the confusion the old lady had.
Rita Ferreira. Kitty Varghese.
Both Christian names. Someone had obviously relayed that her son was dating a Christian girl or maybe Honey Singh had dropped some hints, and Mrs Lucky Singh had misconstrued Rita to be Honey's girlfriend.
Hey presto! Mrs Rita Singh.
Lucky Singh was certainly unplugged from reality. Another sample of God's ingenuity.

'Oh no, Mrs Singh—'

'Come on now
beta
don't be shy. Is he your cousin?' Lucky gestured towards Vikram who, too, seemed to have unravelled the whole puzzle by this time and appeared like he was having a difficult time trying to control a snigger. Rita quickly looked away; the last thing she wanted to do was to burst into laughter. She bit her cheek to avoid laughing. She realised that was the reason Lucky Singh had shown disbelief that Rita and Vikram had different surnames. Maybe Lucky Singh thought Rita had come with her brother. Or father? The thought of Vikram being her dad only magnified the humour.

'Mrs Singh, I am not who you think I am.'

'The only way you could know what I'm thinking is if you are who you say you are not.'

Save me Jesus.

'Believe me, Mrs Singh. I'm DCP Rita Ferreira and this is my colleague ASP Vikram Patil.'

'Honey never told me you were in the police?' Lucky Singh almost exclaimed.

'That's because Honey Singh doesn't know me, Mrs Singh.'

'So how are you here if Honey doesn't know you?'

'That's what I'm trying to explain Mrs Singh. What has Honey Singh told you?'

'That he has already chosen a beautiful daughter-in-law for me.'

'He may be right, but that daughter-in-law is not me.' Rita was aware that Honey Singh was right; Kitty was gorgeous, but she let the ambiguity linger in her response. She didn't want to spill out that they knew exactly what they knew. She wasn't here to give info, she was here to get as much as she could out of Honey's mother.

'OK, Let me get tea and then we'll talk.' Lucky Singh did not wait for a response, didn't offer a choice of coffee or a soft drink. She just got up and left the room.

Rita looked at Vikram and let out a silent laugh. She gesticulated to herself, then pointed downwards, then pointed at Vikram and gestured towards the living room entrance door:
Ill be here, you do the toilet run.

Standard Operating Procedure.

Vikram would go to the bathroom and look for anything that could be of any use to the police. If he had time and opportunity he would also snoop into the bedroom for anything consequential to the case.

Vikram signalled with his thumb:
Message received.

Lucky Singh paced back with a tray of teacups and cookies.

'Could I use the toilet, Mrs Singh?'

'Of course. Use the one in Honey's room.' She pointed towards the room on the right.

Rita took the time to convince Mrs Singh that she wasn't Honey Singh's girlfriend. She was a police officer who was looking for some information from him.

'What has he done? Eloped with someone's daughter?'

'No Mrs Singh, he's done nothing wrong. This is just a routine investigation.'

'Tell me about it,' Lucky Singh poured her tea in the saucer and loudly slurped.

You asked for it.

Rita pulled out the photograph of Sishir Singh and passed it to her.

'This is my Honey. Where was this taken?'

The mother knows best.

'In an elevator at a hotel, nothing to worry about.'

If someone was playing Honey Singh then that someone had done a damn good job of it. Good enough that the mother had been conned.

Vikram was back. There is an unstated limit on the time one can reasonably spend in the toilet without raising suspicion. His headshake was extremely faint, but Rita grasped it; he had found nothing incriminating, which was frustrating, but what had they expected? Counterfoils of a Boarding Card?

'Do you know anyone called Veer Singh, Mrs—'

'Don't even mention that thankless rascal's name in my home,' Lucky Singh barked; her face had gone bloodshot, she appeared furious.

And that told Rita what she sought from mentioning Veer. The animosity between Honey Singh and Veer Singh was genuine. And familial.

'Sorry Mrs Singh, my intention wasn't to bring up any unsavoury memories, but we need to find Veer Singh.'

'What does this have to do anything with my Honey? My Honey treated him like a brother. I treated him like my own son, never differentiated between him and Honey. He stayed with us for days, weekends, I did all his washing and cooking. And in the end, he just left us like we were some unwanted tramps? May he be consumed by worms.'