Chunabhatti—literally meaning lime kiln—was the site of one of Mumbai’s earliest cotton mills, built in the late nineteenth century by industrialist Jamsetji Tata, the future founder of one of India’s largest conglomerates. The mill, like many of its once-flourishing counterparts in the city, now lay defunct, and its substantial lands mired in litigation. Along the western edge of the mill lands ran the Harbour Line railway tracks upon which local commuter trains rattled past every few minutes. The rest of the mill’s perimeter was dotted with chawls—ageing low-rise tenements packed with one-room dwellings, housing a vast section of Chunabhatti’s residents.
Shree Shakti Chawl, to the south of the mill area, was perhaps a little smaller than its neighbouring chawls, but otherwise shared most of their characteristics. It was a creaky wooden structure of three storeys, organized around a central inner courtyard, with a corner of each storey containing communal amenities.
It was nearly 2.45 p.m. when the jeep from Dhobi Talao with three plainclothes policemen and a civilian umpire weaved its way through the narrow bylanes of Chunabhatti and reached the chawl. The jeep halted by the roadside near the entrance.
‘Not for nothing is this place called Chunabhatti,’ Inspector Vichare said. ‘It feels like we are inside a tandoor oven!’
‘Till the rains come, we will bake,’ said ASI Paswan, whom they had picked up along the way at Koliwada Police Station. ‘Then, we will drown. Low-lying area, you see, so regular flooding.’
Vichare had no intention of returning to the area to find out what it was like during the height of the monsoon. His plan was to swiftly pick up Langda from his kholi, take him back to the station, get him to confess to the crime and close the case. In record time, that too—the kind of work that gets a pat on the back from headquarters, and possibly even a reward, he thought to himself.
Lobo decided to press ahead with a recap of their game plan. ‘As discussed, Inspector Vichare and Paswan sir will take the back staircase to the second floor, where Langda’s room is located, at the far corner near the toilets,’ he said, looking back from the driver’s seat at his boss. ‘Langda was seen entering the chawl thirty minutes ago, so we’re quite sure that he’ll be in his room now.’ Lobo paused to point to the compound’s open metallic gate. ‘I’ll guard the gate right here,’ he said. ‘This is the only entrance and exit to the chawl, as far as we know. If needed, I can rush upstairs from here any time.’
‘Russiji is to stay in the jeep,’ said Vichare in a schoolmaster tone. ‘No getting out, understood?’
Russi was looking out of the window at the perimeter wall of the chawl.
‘Understood?’ repeated Vichare.
Russi nodded as all three cops checked their service revolvers.
‘Hopefully we won’t need them,’ said the inspector, swinging out of the jeep along with ASI Paswan.
Moments later, the plan was in motion.
Other than a few curious stares, Vichare and Paswan didn’t raise many eyebrows as they entered the chawl. Most of the men were away at work, and the central courtyard was mainly occupied by women busy chopping vegetables together and kids playing a noisy game of rubber-ball cricket.
Vichare and Paswan walked casually towards the staircase at the far end of the courtyard but picked up pace as they began climbing it. The worn-out timber of the stairs squeaked as they charged up to the second floor. But it wasn’t just they who were in a hurry. The sound of feet shuffling hastily and voices buzzing in faint excitement caught their attention.
‘That’s his room,’ said Paswan when they got to the landing, pointing a few doors down the corridor. Around a dozen men, all in vests and shorts, had gathered there—the source of the din they had heard.
The policemen rushed towards them, but as they got nearer, the men closed in tighter, impeding the cops’ progress. It was then that Vichare saw a hirsute figure in an oversized shirt and trousers slink out from the other side of the crowd. He shuffled hurriedly towards the staircase at the opposite end, dragging a flaccid left leg along.
‘That’s him!’ yelled Vichare.
The man shuffled even faster.
‘Stop now, Vasu, or we will shoot!’ barked Vichare across the corridor.
‘Get out of our way. This is Mumbai Police,’ shouted Paswan at the assembly of men, shoving a couple of them towards the wall.
The men dispersed instantly, scurrying into various nearby rooms. But nothing stopped Vasu Langda. He had reached the staircase, and in the few seconds it took Vichare and Paswan to get there, he had slid down its banister and gone out of sight.
‘Don’t tell me that this one-legged old goonda is slipping through our fingers.’ The thought crossed Vichare’s mind, but it didn’t slacken his adrenaline-pumped body. He leapt down the stairs at full tilt, to the first floor and then to the ground. Paswan—astonished by the agility of his older and fatter colleague—followed closely behind. Both policemen had their pistols drawn.
The courtyard, which just minutes before had been full of chatter and humdrum afternoon activity, was now deserted. There was no sign of Langda either.
‘Where the hell has he gone?’ asked Vichare.
‘He either slipped into one of the rooms or went through the gate. That’s the only way to get out,’ said Paswan, his eyes darting rapidly around the square.
‘The gate is closed,’ said Vichare ‘He may have crept out through it—hopefully right into Lobo’s waiting arms.’
The duo raced towards the gate.
Moments later, Vasu Langda emerged from behind a thick bush near the edge of the courtyard. ‘That’s the problem with second-hand knowledge,’ he thought, breathing heavily. ‘You think you know all the ways in and out.’
He surveyed the courtyard. The policemen were gone. Twenty steps and he would be at the boundary wall, he reckoned. There, behind a mass of overgrown foliage, lay a tin door that opened on to the lane adjoining the railway tracks. The other way out of Shree Shakti Chawl.
He moved as fast as he could drag his left leg along. Fifteen steps to go. Ten. Six. Nearly there. Four. Three. Two. He had reached the tin door. He thrust aside the creepers and pushed the door open. His palms were sweaty and his heart pounding.
Just a little longer …
Chunabhatti station was only a few minutes away down the lane. And then … freedom.
Vasu popped his head out of the door and glanced left, then right. Just as he heaved the rest of himself out he felt two strong arms latch onto him tightly from behind and push him to the ground.
‘Nice attempt to escape, Vasu Langda,’ said Constable Lobo. ‘You think you’re the only one who knows about this little side exit, eh?’
The police jeep with Vichare, Paswan and Russi turned into the narrow lane and pulled up alongside Lobo.
Russi smiled as he looked at the tin door and the scraggly mess of leaves and creepers that had covered it. It was this entirely out-of-place thatch of greenery on the bare boundary wall of the chawl that had made him suspect it was a cover for something of use. When he had alerted Lobo to that possibility, the constable had raced around, just in time to catch the limping scarecrow.
Vichare stepped out of the jeep. ‘I don’t know where you were planning to run off to, you thug,’ he said to Langda. ‘But there’s just one place you’re going now. The lock-up.’
‘For what?’ Langda shot back, gasping for breath under Lobo’s firm grip.
‘Vasu Langda,’ said Vichare, triumphantly fishing out a pair of handcuffs, ‘you are under arrest for the murder of Shreya Ved.’
‘You have nothing to keep me here, Inspector saheb,’ said Vasu Langda defiantly. ‘Anyway, nowadays nobody believes these CCTV videos. Easy to tamper with them.’
Vichare banged his fist on the table that separated them in the large interrogation room at Dhobi Talao Police Station.
‘I don’t need your certification on the evidence, kutrya,’ bellowed the inspector. ‘Just answer the question. Why did you kill Shreya Ved?’
Lobo and Russi were in the adjoining chamber, watching the action through a one-way mirror.
‘This Langda is going to get a tight slap unless he starts singing,’ said Lobo, anxiously shifting forward in his chair.
Russi wondered if he would soon witness his first live demonstration of custodial violence.
‘I was in my room all of Sunday evening,’ said Vasu. ‘Ask anyone in the chawl and they will confirm that.’
‘Is that so? Whom should I ask? Those same men who blocked us and tried to help you get away? I’m sure they are the most neutral witnesses in the world!’ said Vichare.
‘I am telling you, saheb,’ said Vasu indignantly. ‘Also …’
‘Also …? Also, what, huh?’ said Vichare.
‘Also, you can’t keep me here for more than twenty-four hours without pressing charges. For which you have no evidence,’ said Vasu.
Vichare’s face turned beet red. ‘Chyaaila, you bloody scoundrel, don’t teach me my job! It’s your ugly face in the video from that night. See, there you are, hobbling into Shreya Ved’s office just before 10 p.m.,’ he said, playing a clip from the CCTV footage on his phone for Vasu. ‘We also now have the forensic report. She was killed sometime between 9 and 11 p.m. Right when you were in there. You may not know the first thing about how evidence works, but I have no doubt that the judge tomorrow will be satisfied enough to keep you and your fat butt locked up in jail.’
Vasu wriggled his cuffed hands and grinned, his stained yellow teeth emerging from under his unkempt moustache.
‘What do you mean by showing me those crooked teeth of yours?’ said Vichare. ‘If I give you ek kaan ke neeche, they will all be scattered on the floor. Or would you prefer I bash your head in like you did to that poor girl?’
Vasu’s grin turned into a coarse, phlegmy laugh. ‘You can’t touch me, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Not with your raised hand. Not with all the evidence in the world.’
‘Why is that now?’ asked Vichare. ‘Which big man’s aashirwaad do you have over your head?’
‘Saheb, you are messing with people far bigger than yourself. I’m just telling you to be careful, that’s all,’ said Vasu, scratching his armpits with his cuffed hands. ‘You seem sensible enough to figure the rest out.’
Vichare stood up, his chair nearly toppling backwards. ‘Stop laughing or I will break your thick skull—’
‘Sir, got a minute?’
Lobo had popped his head into the interrogation room. He was certain his intervention had diffused an imminent escalation to violence, but that wasn’t why he had interrupted; he had a message for the inspector.
Vichare took a deep breath and walked to the door. Lobo whispered something in his ear and handed over a hastily scribbled note. The message brought a smile to the inspector’s face. He walked to his chair and dragged it over to Vasu. When he sat, his face was barely six inches away from the man’s.
‘Langda,’ said Vichare gently, sticking a cigarette between his lips, ‘you know Constable Lobo? Yes, yes … the same person who stopped your escape stunt. He just passed on some very interesting information to me.’ Vichare blew out a small cloud of smoke directly into Vasu’s face. ‘He found that your kholi in the chawl, apart from being full of bottles of alcohol, had a neatly packed holdall bag. Seems like you were ready to leave for somewhere. I hope we didn’t prevent you from going on vacation?’
Vasu looked away from Vichare. ‘Is there some law saying people cannot pack a bag?’ he asked.
‘Naahi re baba. Of course not,’ said Vichare. ‘In fact, if you have just committed a murder, it is highly advisable to pack and run away. You took a few days, which was quite foolish. But I must apologize—as soon as you were ready to scoot, we arrived and spoilt your plans.’
Vasu bit the side of his lower lip, revealing a canine that was part mustard-yellow and part charcoal. Vichare moved his head back a couple of inches.
‘You know, Langda, what is even more interesting?’ he said. ‘It’s what we found inside the bag, tucked in between the folds of one of your shirts. Two simple, old-fashioned mobile phones, and some SIM cards. Burner phones, just like a criminal would have. One of the phones is new and unused. But it’s the other one that we’re more interested in. It has been recently used and has a couple of numbers on it. Looks like we arrived at your kholi before you could get rid of it, eh?’
The smirk that had been on Langda’s face evaporated.
‘So will you tell us whom you were calling, or do you want us to trace it?’ asked Vichare. ‘Of course, Inspector Vichare never runs away from more work. But when he is forced to do avoidable work, then he gets a bit angry. If you want, I can round up some other criminals who have experienced the result of that anger so that you can ask them yourself.’
Langda coughed, and mucus made its way down from his nostrils as he did so. ‘I don’t have anything more to say, Inspector saheb,’ he said, wiping off the snot forcefully with his thumbs. ‘Do what you like, but you can’t touch a hair on me.’
‘Okay, as you please,’ said Vichare, springing to his feet. ‘You already have one useless leg, so I’ll take pity on you and not break the other one. Anyway, there’s no use wasting my energy when we know you were at the scene of the crime and caught you red-handed trying to escape from town. When we find out whom you were calling on those burner phones, we’ll know if you acted alone or were following orders. In any case, I will ask my friends at Arthur Road Jail to prepare a jhakaas luxury cell just for you. Five-star maafik. They always oblige for the guests I recommend.’
With that, Vichare stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut.
Moments later he was in the viewing chamber with Lobo and Russi. All three of them looked through the one-way mirror at the handcuffed man in the adjacent room.
‘Let him stew in there for a while and then throw him back in the lock-up. We need to frame charges and hold the pig in custody at all costs,’ said Vichare. ‘Good work finding that bag and those phones, Lobo. What do we know about the calls on Vasu’s burner phone?’
As Lobo looked down at his phone screen, he blushed at the rare praise. ‘There are two numbers in the logs, sir. There was an outgoing call around 5 p.m., and then to the same number, a text message was sent at 10 p.m. To the other number, there were a couple of outgoing calls at around 7.15 p.m. I told the tech team to work double-shift to trace these numbers. There’s another team looking into whether anything can be salvaged from Shreya’s laptop, phone and email records. We will see what they are able to retrieve from that some time tomorrow.’
‘I heard Inspector saheb refer to the time of death from the forensic report,’ said Russi. ‘Did forensics discover anything else useful?’
‘They have confirmed most of what we already suspected,’ said Lobo. ‘The bronze trophy was the weapon used to bash in Shreya’s head from behind. Microdroplets of blood were found on it, and tiny deposits of the trophy were found enmeshed in her hair. They also say it was a clean blow—one strike was sufficient to get the job done. The angle of the injury suggests that it was the work of a right-hander.’
‘Which is about 95 per cent of the population,’ said Vichare ruefully. ‘How about any findings from the office, the scene of the crime?’
‘They couldn’t get much from there,’ said Lobo. ‘The same trophy was used to smash the laptop and phone, but they were less forceful blows. No fingerprints were found on the trophy, and the room was also wiped spotless.’
‘Clearly the work of a professional,’ said Vichare, stretching his arms out in front of him. ‘Like Langda.’
The inspector’s phone, placed on the table, began ringing. The caller’s name flashed on the screen: Sabse Bada Boss. Vichare swallowed as he prepared himself to answer it. Russi gave Lobo an enquiring glance.
‘It’s Big Boss … actually, Biggest Boss,’ whispered Lobo. ‘Commissioner saheb from Police Headquarters.’
‘Jai Hind, sir!’ said Vichare, jumping to attention. ‘Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Definitely this is a very important case … I know, sir, media is asking many questions … Of course, sir. Don’t worry, sir. Excellent progress is being made, sir. We have the main suspect in custody already … yes, sir … what, sir? Yes, sir, sorry, sir … I am listening to you.’
Vichare fell silent as the caller continued to speak.
‘But, sir,’ he said feebly after a while. ‘There is no basis to say the person in the footage is not him. Same-to-same get-up and same-to-same limp, sir.’
There was a pause again as Vichare listened intently. ‘Yes, sir. Okay, sir. As you say, sir,’ he said. ‘We will let him go. Thank you, sir. Jai Hind, sir.’
Vichare slumped back into his chair, all his energy sucked out in an instant.
Lobo and Russi didn’t need an explanation as to what had just transpired. The three of them sat in shock, trying to make sense of the orders the top cop of the city had just handed out.
‘Vasu Langda was right,’ thought Russi. ‘There are people far bigger than Vichare involved in this.’
‘On what grounds can he ask for Vasu to be released?’ asked Lobo with sudden agitation.
‘He said our evidence is not watertight enough to press charges. Maybe the CCTV was wrong, maybe the people in the chawl are being honest … blah, blah, falana, dhimkana. Next, we may be told that Shreya lifted the trophy and smashed the back of her head all by herself!’ said Vichare.
‘So … now what, sir?’ asked Lobo.
‘Now what?’ repeated Vichare. ‘Lobo, we have orders to follow. We have to release the man who killed Shreya Ved.’ He let out an exasperated groan.
Russi observed the two infuriated yet helpless policemen. This was something he had seen only in movies till now—honest cops having their work undone by higher-ups colluding with crooks.
‘One thing is clear from this,’ said Russi. ‘Vasu was following the instructions of someone important.’
‘And whoever that someone is has made the right calls already,’ muttered Vichare.
‘That is without doubt,’ said Russi. ‘But what’s more important, Inspector saheb, is the identity of the recipients of Vasu’s calls and messages on the evening of the murder. Vasu may have swung the trophy that killed Shreya. But it is the people he was in contact with that day who ordered him to do so.’