Ghote felt his world, the stable world he had thought he existed in, had been turned upside down, ulta pulta. My wife, to me essence of womanhood, mother of my Ved, ever tears-ready, and, yes, ever rage-ready also, has declared she is willing to help examine Bikram’s blood-soaked, horribly hacked-about head … It is seeming to be an impossibility.
But then he realised it was no impossibility.
To the roll-call of feminine feelings I just now found running through my head like a film shown at double speed – womanliness, tears, rages – I should have added something else. Woman’s willingness, shared by nearly all of them, to examine, to touch if necessary, whatever wounds a body may have fallen victim to, whatever foul sores may have erupted and are requiring attention.
‘You are here, here to help me when I am needing help as never before.’ The altogether grateful words came.
So, after a hasty meal, before baby Ved was put into his carved swinging cradle to sleep the sleep of the innocent, Ghote set to work in the bedroom lifting down the squeezed-in baggages, thinking that, not so many hours before, he had in desperate haste pushed these same suitcases and empty boxes back into their places, with dust falling all around, apparently unnoticed.
‘Let me look,’ Protima said as he stepped down off the bedroom chair he had once more pressed into service.
Wondering at her yet again, Ghote pulled wide the twine handles of the shopping bag and let her pluck apart the topmost sheets of the Matunga News.
‘But that is a photo of Pradeep Popatkar, the filthy cheat,’ she said holding up the first page.
‘Yes, yes. Your pet hate. The one your magazine Daylight was saying, just only this week, that he was doing very bad things, yes, up in Matunga,. And also, Daylight was claiming, taking the financial help of the boss of big, big Moolchand Investments plc. But, listen, I am very much wanting to get this horrible bag out of this room where soon Ved will be sleeping-sleeping.’
‘Yes, you are right. I will wait to look and look at it when we are in the kitchen.’
On the kitchen’s small white bakelite-topped table, carefully scrubbed, the two of them began at last to conduct their examination. Ghote set down the battered old shopping basket on its side and carefully extracted the terrible object inside it, tugging as gently as he could at Bikram’s roughly cropped, wiry hair, blood still a little sticky in the warmth of his tugging fingers.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘if I can remember enough now of what I was learning years ago at Police Training School, we may discover something worth knowing from the wounds inflicted by whatever weapon was used.’
‘Then begin, begin. What first is it the investigator would do?’
Working as much as possible in the way a forensic scientist had demonstrated years before in the lecture room at Nasik, Ghote, lacking all the scalpels and other instruments the scientist had employed, conducted as scrupulous an examination as he could of the neck of the severed head, even from time to time making use of Protima’s little fine-sewing magnifying glass.
But, after something like two hours’ painstaking work going over and over the now hardened surface, he gave one look at the blank open page of the notebook he had hopefully placed on a corner of the table, and had to admit in tumbling disappointment that he must have forgotten almost all he had once listened to so carefully at Nasik.
‘We have discovered nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing that I did not see before, even in the brief glance I was able to take at the head in my cabin. All I could have entered in this notebook, had it been at all worth my while, was that whoever hacked Bikram’s head from his body needed four blows to do it. Yes, exactly four blows. Evidence, of a sort, I suppose.’
‘But, no, there is something more to help,’ Protima contradicted him.
She opened wide the laid-aside sheets of the Matunga News.
‘Look, it is here. Here.’
‘But this newspaper is only what the killer happened to use to wrap up the head before putting it in the shopping bag,’ he said. ‘All right, it is the Matunga News, and that may tell us where the killing took place. Or it may not. But—’
‘No, no. It is nothing at all to do with which paper he was using. It is the photo. The photo I was telling you about before, the one of the man you were calling as my pet hate. Of Pradeep Popatkar. Yes, he used to be a person of much influence out at Matunga, among all the criminals and riff-raff that are there. But now, standing in the by-election for Bombay South, with all the rich pickings it promises, he is announcing he always had the greatest interest in this area where we now are itself.’
This was too much for Ghote. Tired out as he was with his loathsome task seeming all the more horrible each time, it had come home to him that he was working on the head of the man who had served him, however badly, ever since his first day at Crime Branch, and he rounded now on his wife, however helpful she had been to him.
‘What you are saying?’ he shouted. ‘All that is nonsense only. Just because Popatkar has his picture in this newspaper it does not mean he had anything whatsoever to do with Bikram’s murder, the murder I am determined to get to the bottom of.’
But, it seemed Protima had, in an instant, changed from loyal forensic assistant to wife determined her husband would do as she wanted.
‘No, no. Popatkar is someone you should be taking very much of interest in. He is a one hundred percent no-good. Why do you think he has come down to here, here where you and I now are having votes, to try by every unfair means he can to win the seat, altogether in laps of gods with so many other contestants? It is because he will be able to sell his Legislative Assembly votes to whoever will pay most. His interest is in Pradeep Popatkar only. He is not at all knowing what, in this world, is his proper place.’
Ghote was on the point of finding more sharp, and logical, words when Protima’s denunciation took on a suddenly different note.
‘No, Popatkar is not knowing his right place in the way you know yours, my husband.’
And Ghote experienced a rush of astonishment.
Yes, the thought streamed through his mind, it is true I have, almost from a child, wanted to find my own proper place in the world. To find it and to stay in it, not falling away and not also filling my head with thoughts that I must go higher and higher. But I had no idea at all that Protima has found this is so.
The least I can do, it struck him then, is not to tell her she is being ridiculous about who is standing in her by-election, fly-election.
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I promise I will pay some attention to Pradeep Popatkar. Yes, I promise.’
‘Promises are not enough. You have made promises before. But now, when Voting Day is getting near, you must do your duty. Your duty to Bombay itself, to the whole of India even. You must see that Pradeep Popatkar is altogether thrown out. He must be made into one fine example of public disgust at the way politics nowadays are made the plaything of men grasping for money and yet more money. So, yes, you must vote against him. But you must also tell each and every one of your colleagues in Crime Branch to do the same. The ACP even.’
Ghote thought, with appalled dismay, of himself daring even to address Mr Divekar on the subject of politics, much less conveying to him Protima’s demand that his vote must be used in the way she herself wanted. Good God, he thought, now that I have it in mind, ACP Sahib is much the same sort of man as this Pradeep Whatshisname. Both of them, it seems, totally determined to do what they are wanting.
But how to respond to the fearful suggestion Protima has made?
Yes, only one way.
‘But, Ved’s mother. There is something urgent-urgent we have to do now. Now at this moment.’
‘Yes. We must get something more to eat. We are needing that. We were having such a quick meal before. We should have just another bite. But not here at this table itself. No, we should sit in the next room, together on the takht. If those slippy-slidy cushions will for once stay put.’
‘All right, we will do that. But first—’
‘First, what?’
‘Look,’ he said, with all the urgency he could summon up. ‘Look at that head there on the table still. You know, I was able to find just only that one place to hide it when I brought it here. In the bedroom. I was searching everywhere, and there was nowhere else. Nowhere else at all. And … and there is still nowhere else to put it where it would be safe from some visitor who may come. You never can be sure someone will suddenly be there. You know that.’
A long moment passed before Protima spoke.
‘You are saying you are going to put that head, all blood covered as it is, into the room where Ved is sleeping in his cradle? No, no. I tell you no.’
Ghote hardened himself to the sticking point.
‘Then explain to me,’ he said, almost grating the words out, ‘where can it be put, at least for tonight and perhaps for a day or two longer? You and I will be eating our chota hazri here, at this table tomorrow morning. Ved also may be here. Everything must be taken away now.’
He let his words hang there in front of her. And then – he hardly knew he was speaking again – he added something. Just a quick remark.
‘And a good squirting of Flit should be given also.’
Protima was still standing, in the way he had in the past seen her, adamantly upright in front of him. But now – Flit. Homely Flit had got to her – she melted. Snow in summer.
‘You are right, Ved’s father. Right.’
Ghote needed to hear not another word. In scarcely more than a minute he was back in the bedroom – swift eye cast on Ved fast asleep in his swinging cradle – and then once more he pulled the room’s chair into position.
So, first thing next day, chota hazri quickly eaten, Ghote was back at Crime Branch before any of his fellow officers, even before Superintendent Ghorpade, glimpsed coming in at the compound gate a few moments after himself. His cabin’s doors still flapping together behind him, he took a long, quiet look at the whole of the little room and then a yet closer survey.
Everything, he decided at last, was just as it had been the day before when he had left in a rush finding he was already a little behind time. The drawers where I was putting my papers are as firmly locked as they were. Cupboard is locked also, dark-blue, mildew-stained Criminal Investigation (edited by RM Howe) safely inside it. Right, put it back ek dum in its place of honour.
Yes, even my desecrated waste bin is tucked away in its accustomed dark corner. One piece of luck, perhaps more than I deserve.
But – the thought struck him like a bolt of lightning – what if pernickety Sgt Moos is coming in now and noticing with those eyes, famously keen to spot even one trace of fingerprints, something on the rim of the bin. But, no. No, if Moos is coming, and he almost certainly will come before long, then all he will be wanting is yet another of his famous chats. He will make straight for one of the chairs in front of the desk – yes, both now in their exact positions – and begin at once recounting his newest triumph. Or perhaps his oldest.
But the bin? Has it been cleaned at all? That was one of Bikram’s tasks, generally remembered, if carried out very badly. No, no one will have seen to that.
So, yes, part of my bandobast duties, I must arrange now for a new peon for myself, and straight away also. I cannot once more have Mr Divekar’s Thomas taken away from his tea-bearing duties to bring down instructions to me.
Time enough at this moment to get what I have to do done? Yes. Must be.
Before an hour more had passed, with the ACP still silent above, Ghote had in front of him one Paresh, a man looking a good deal tidier than rum-smelling, shirt-stained Bikram had ever been. His face wore the would-be helpful expression Gujaratis tended to show, ever willing to please.
Yes, I am truly learning the ways of Crime Branch, Ghote thought. If I had needed a new peon four-five weeks ago, what would I have done? Nothing. I would have flapped and floundered only. But just now it took me no more than some minutes to telephone Tilak Marg PS and search out this suitable fellow, to get him installed on the Crime Branch roll of peons, to state his rate of pay – one step up from Bikram’s – and have him here in front of me to be given instructions for his each and every duty.
‘Right,’ Ghote said, ‘First thing is: my waste bin. It is altogether needing cleaning. I do not believe the fellow I was having before you was ever doing same. Not once.’
A few minutes later, as quietly smiling Paresh came back, scrubbed-clean bin in his hands, another idea came into Ghote’s head.
Just only fifteen-twenty minutes ago I was seeing to it that Paresh was entered in internal records. But it was not simply his name, Paresh Maskawala, that was written down there. It was his address as well. And, if I was seeing Paresh’s full details, someone at some time must have entered Bikram’s facts. So, back to Records. Then in hardly any time at all I will know where Bikram was staying. As soon as I am free after that I have only to go to wherever that is and I will very likely learn a whole lot more about Bikram than his bare name. Perhaps there will even be some clue to who is the person he met somewhere who gave him that access to the unknown businessman whose secret he happened to chance upon somewhere about Crime Branch.
A good step forward.
No, not one step only. Perhaps a good many steps in the investigation into Bikram’s murder that I promised myself, Protima also, to undertake. To undertake on my own.
But Paresh had come in with more than a brightly clean waste bin. He had also quietly put on the desk the day’s first bundle of memos from the ACP. Top priority.
Usually it took a full two hours, or even three, to compile the ACP’s list. But now Ghote found he was reaching down for Inspector Patil’s ancient, frequently jamming typewriter after a little more than ninety minutes.
Then – damn any waiting for the ACP’s last-second corrections – I have in my grasp now a just-possible lead to Bikram’s drinking friend, whoever he is, who must have given him his access to whatever money-dripping crorepati he was hoping to blackmail.
Yes, back now ek dum to Records. Do it for myself. Try telephoning them and God knows what complications will be there.
Among all the dust-thick cardboard files of Records, pieces falling off them left and right, the occasional overstuffed one spilling out half its contents, he located quickly enough the record book into which not long before he had watched Paresh’s particulars being entered. More, flicking furiously back through its dozens of dusty pages he found within ten minutes the name Bikram Bhatt, with particulars that confirmed it as his own Bikram. If I’d ever heard the name Bhatt I had at once forgotten it, such a common one. Must be thousands of Bhatts in Bombay. But, yes, yes, yes, here is the address he gave when he got the job.
A disappointing one. It was Hut 191 in a slum out in Matunga. No more than that. And how maddeningly big any slum out there was likely to be. Bikram’s one might well have many, many more huts in it than a hundred and ninety-one. All right, he had stated to the Records clerk who had entered his name that the slum was ‘off Lady Hardinge Road’, but that was hardly any help.
Well, I am actually knowing at least something about that British Lady Hardinge, honoured by the name of a road up in Matunga. My father, who loved all curious facts, told me once that there had been two Viscount Hardinges, each a Viceroy of India. So Lady Hardinge must have been the wife of one of them.
But that is hardly a help to me in finding Bikram’s Hut 191.
Yet I must find it. I must go out to Matunga and find it. But, damn it, even Matunga itself is one hell of a long way from here.
Quickly he scrawled the scanty address in his notebook and made his way back to his cabin. There he banged hard on the rounded, shiny bell to summon Paresh.
Almost at once Paresh appeared. Good, Ghote thought. How often did Bikram come this quickly? Never. Never once.
‘Paresh,’ he said, ‘I am going to be away from my desk for some time. If anyone is asking for me, say you are not sure but you think I have had to eat my tiffin at home because my baby son—’
He stopped himself.
To invent some imaginary sudden illness for little Ved may somehow bring about just such a disaster. Very small children can, in one moment only, fall victim to a whole medical book of dangerous illnesses.
‘No. Say this, that I have had to go back to my flat, not far away, because my wife is not feeling too well and – yes, this is it – we have no servant just now to look after our baby.’
‘Yes, Inspector, I will give that message,’ Paresh replied, simultaneously conveying by a fleeting look that he had guessed his new boss was going somewhere quite different from the destination he had specified. Perhaps to place a bet on whatever proves to be the winning number in the daily list of Cotton Exchange prices, the so-called matka, the big pot who anyone buying the single right ticket might win. Or, did Paresh think I might be going to buy this wife of mine a fine present to cover up some altogether different activity?
Ghote ignored it all. Quickly he locked up his desk, papers pushed away into it.
It will be hours, it must be, before I am back. Will Paresh be able to ward off inquiries? He must. He will have to.
The address he had got for Bikram was vague as could be. It was as if the rum-soaked fellow had been none too clear when he had given where it was that he did live. But that Hut 191 had to be found and visited, and as soon as possible. If Bikram, a short time before he was killed, had met in some bar near Headquarters a man who worked in an office headed by a crorepati with a secret that he did not want at any cost to come out, then finding that drinking companion quickly was worth almost any effort. Whoever the fellow was he could well lead directly to the goonda who had been paid, first to hack off Bikram’s head, and then to put it somewhere inside Crime Branch, as a warning to any other would-be blackmailer anywhere.
Or, Ghote thought in a sudden jab of suspicion, perhaps – could it be? – to take it into Crime Branch because there is actually someone here to be given such an unmistakably direct warning.
But, no. I am soaring up into heights that are thick with doubts, misconceptions and wild surmises. No, Matunga first. I must be going to Matunga to hunt down Bikram’s actual home, and then to get, if I can, a name and a description that will make it possible to find in the neighbourhood of Crime Branch this beer-bar friend Bikram confided in. If such a friend does exist.
Just managing to prevent himself running until he was out in the bustling streets, it came to Ghote that time was altogether limited. Good God, it is one long walk from here to Churchgate and Bombay Central where I must get a train to Matunga. That alone will take half an hour, and that will be a half-hour when I am absent from my desk, and it will be a much longer time that I will have to be out in Matunga. Even when I have reached there I will need perhaps the whole of the rest of the morning, most of the afternoon also, to find, first whatever slum it is off Lady Hardinge Road, and then to locate its Hut 191.
How will Paresh, quick thinker as he seems to be, manage to account for such a long absence should Mr Divekar ring with a summons to me at last to take on a real Crime Branch case, unlikely though that is?
The next moment he spotted, in all the jostle of traffic in the wide road beside him, the yellow roof of a taxi. Wildly waving his arms, he managed to attract its driver’s attention.
All right, fare will cost me altogether too much. But it will, at least, get me directly to Lady Hardinge Road.