Russi had barely heaved himself into the back seat of his Wagon-R and told Gopal their next destination before he dialled Vichare’s number on his mobile.
‘Russiji, you will live a hundred years it seems,’ answered Vichare cheerfully. ‘I was wondering why you’ve been so silent since yesterday afternoon, so I decided to message you.’
Russi laughed. ‘Inspector saheb, silence is not something I am usually good at. As for the hundred years, that is not so far away. Unless you are counting from the age of my mind and spirit, in which case I am still a youthful twenty-one.’
Russi wondered what Vichare would think of the independent investigative initiative he had just undertaken, and concluded that this was not the moment to find out.
‘That would make me only sixteen, and our dear Lobo a doodh-peeta infant,’ said Vichare, chuckling. ‘Anyway, there are some interesting updates from our side. I am on speakerphone with Lobo.’
‘Good morning, dear Constable Lobo,’ said Russi. ‘Have you been chasing the people at Pizza Oven?’
‘Yes, that was one of the updates, Russiji,’ said Lobo. ‘What we found is that—’
‘They had no order from any Shreya Ved on Sunday, and therefore no delivery person from Pizza Oven was at Shanti Chambers that night,’ said Russi. ‘Am I correct, my friends?’
Vichare and Lobo exchanged surprised glances.
‘Russiji, you are correct, and we are … clean bowled,’ said Vichare. ‘Lobo spent hours making calls and running behind this, only to conclude that no Pizza Oven delivery person went to Shanti Chambers on Sunday. But how did you know that already?’
‘How I know this is less important than who the man delivering the pizza is,’ said Russi. ‘I shall tell you both when we meet.’
Vichare’s eyes widened. His respect for the old-but-young-at-heart umpire had risen several notches in a few seconds. ‘Now there’s a second update,’ he said. ‘A big one.’
‘Have you found out who the limping scarecrow—our prime suspect from the CCTV footage—is?’ asked Russi.
Both cops now had their mouths open in disbelief. Vichare put the call on mute momentarily. ‘How on earth does he know all this?’ he asked his junior.
Lobo shrugged. He had suspected that Russi was a brainy old bird but now he was convinced.
‘I was sure that our ultra-efficient Constable Lobo would discover this speedily,’ continued Russi. He didn’t tell the two policemen what it was that made him so sure. ‘I can’t wait to find out who it is. I’m nearly at Dhobi Talao. Shall we discuss over chai and vada pav?’
‘Vasudev Yeshwant Lodke, known on the streets as Vasu Langda,’ Lobo announced, pulling up a photo of the man on his phone.
Russi had just joined Lobo and Vichare at the vada pav stall outside Dhobi Talao Police Station. It was not yet noon, but the sun was bright and intense, and Russi had to squint to get a good look at the mugshot on the screen.
He saw a weathered face, probably in its fifties, framed by a predominantly grey moustache and beard, and capped by a messy mat of thick snowy-white hair. Below the wide craggy forehead, a pair of straggly, sparse eyebrows gave way to large bloodshot eyes.
‘A known history-sheeter in Central Mumbai, mainly in Sion-Koliwada and Antop Hill. He has quite a notorious record. Kidnapping, extortion—even an attempt-to-murder charge,’ said Lobo. ‘When I sent out the alert with a screengrab from our video footage to all the stations in the city, our colleagues at Koliwada Police Station immediately recognized him and responded. When I mentioned the limp, there was no doubt left.’
Lobo couldn’t keep the grin off his face, proud of the rapid and effective teamwork.
Vichare slurped his cutting chai. ‘This Vasu Langda has been in and out of lock-up it seems, but doesn’t stay in for too long,’ he said. ‘Looks like a class-one street thug but must have some powerful connections.’
‘Is there another photo of this chap?’ enquired Russi.
‘Oh yes, this one,’ said Lobo, swiping left on his screen to bring up a full-length picture of Vasu Langda wearing an oversized jacket, patched-up trousers and a newsboy cap that covered his eyes.
‘ASI Paswan from Koliwada sent us this recent photo taken on the street in front of Vasu’s chawl in Chunabhatti. Exactly like what we saw in the CCTV footage,’ continued Lobo.
A young boy appeared and thrust three enormous vada pavs into the hands of the hungry men.
‘What about tea for saheb?’ asked Vichare impatiently, pointing to Russi. The boy scurried off and, within moments, he returned with a piping hot cup of cutting chai. Neither did Vichare acknowledge the speedy turnaround, nor did the boy expect any such recognition.
The inspector had other things on his mind. ‘We need to move fast to catch this rascal,’ he said, tapping his fingers anxiously on the side of his cup. ‘Unfortunately, these sorts of crooks have connections inside the police. As soon as our alert went out, he would have found out we are on to him.’
Vichare opened his mouth wide and inhaled half his vada pav. Mouth still full, he turned to Lobo. ‘Do whe hab dhe warranth yet?’ he asked.
‘It’s ready at the station, sir,’ said Lobo. ‘We also have intel that he is at his chawl, and ASI Paswan will be providing us with backup when we reach. We can leave as soon as …’ He looked pointedly at the partially consumed refreshments in Vichare’s hands.
Vichare tipped the remaining cutting chai into his mouth. ‘Russiji, I also want to tell you about our meeting with Kajal Banerjee,’ he said. ‘You remember her—the journalist who met Shreya the evening she was killed?’
‘Yes, of course, Shreya’s college friend!’ said Russi.
Vichare raised his eyebrows in wonder for the fourth time that afternoon.
Russi smiled. ‘No secrets in the age of social media,’ he said as if he had read Vichare’s mind. ‘These days youngsters put up their whole life online for the world to see. If they studied at a half-decent college, it will definitely feature on their profiles.’
‘I had no idea that you’re the social media type, Russiji,’ said Vichare admiringly.
‘Ah, everyone with an interest in snooping should be,’ said Russi. ‘And not just FB and IG. The real action is on Telegram.’
Vichare had no idea why Russi was into telegrams when it had been at least a decade since that colonial heirloom of a service had been stopped in India.
‘So yes, Shreya and Kajal were college friends,’ said the inspector. ‘Also, Kajal said all this nonsense about journalists never revealing sources, but I am nakki sure that Shreya was her insider for the Express Today article on fixing. She also knew about Shreya’s affair with Aziz … and told us that Jayesh had learned of it weeks ago, not on Sunday as he’d claimed. Other than that …’ Vichare paused momentarily as he dug his hand into his pocket in search of a cigarette. ‘Something didn’t feel right, Russiji,’ he continued. ‘I can’t say exactly what it was. Maybe you will be able to shed some light.’
‘Most happy to be of assistance, Inspector saheb,’ said Russi. ‘Perhaps I could join you on your way to Chunabhatti and you can fill me in on Kajal on the way?’
Vichare licked the tips of his moustache and considered the offer. ‘Why not? Maybe your fresh eyes …I mean, eye … I mean, you know … will help.’
Vichare gobbled up the rest of his vada pav hastily as the three of them walked into the station.
Lobo was unable to contain his curiosity any longer.
‘Russiji, please tell us who the Pizza Oven delivery boy is,’ he said before he had even reached his desk.
‘That’ll be quick, my boy,’ said Russi enthusiastically. ‘If you pull up the CCTV recording again, it’ll take less than a minute.’
While Vichare fiddled with his cigarette, looking around for a lighter in the environs, Lobo promptly flipped open his laptop and pulled up the video file. Russi leaned over Lobo’s shoulder as he skimmed through the footage, awaiting the moment that would tell all.
‘There we are,’ said Russi as the screen paused on the young, well-built man in the Pizza Oven uniform, wearing a cap and mask, two pizza boxes in hand. ‘Zoom in a little closer. Yes, that’s right. Hold. Now … do you see it?’
‘Do I see … what?’ asked Vichare, scratching his chin. He had seen the video half a dozen times already and it looked no different to him this time.
Lobo brought his face closer to the screen, his nose centimetres away from meeting the liquid crystal display. ‘I see his hands, the two pizza boxes he is carrying,’ he said. ‘I also see he has some pattern on both his arms. Tattoos?’
‘Precisely,’ said Russi excitedly. ‘But not just any tattoos. Our man’s huge lion-shaped tattoos bear a striking resemblance to …’
Russi fished out his copy of The Bulletin from his pocket and held the front page near the screen.
The two cops were dumbstruck.
‘Tujhya nanachi taang!’ yelled Vichare. ‘What the hell was Rishi Girhotra doing at the scene of the murder disguised as a Pizza Oven delivery man?’