With Suren in tow, I sprinted over the road to the quayside. There, close to the waterfront, a tugboat, its hull dented and funnel blackened with age, was pushing another vessel, towards the low sea wall.
As the smaller vessel approached, I held my breath and leapt, landing on the rickety wooden deck with all the poise of a sea cow, practically scaring the life out of a skinny fisherman who stood close by. He barely had time to regain his wits before Suren barrelled in beside me, shaking the deck’s loose timbers.
Then we were off again, running the length of the vessel to the stern. From there, I clambered onto the tug’s vulcanised bumper and hauled myself up and onto its deck. I helped Suren up, then ran for the wheelhouse.
The pilot came out, his face suggesting he was unsure whether we were pirates or just the officials of the Bombay Port Authority. I pulled out my warrant card and shoved it in his face.
‘Police business. You need to take us to Haji Ali.’
He seemed confused, and Suren’s attempt at explaining it to him in sub-par Hindustani didn’t much help.
The man pointed towards the mosque. ‘Haji Ali is there only. You can walk to it.’
Suren embarked on some exposition which I imagined covered exactly why that wasn’t a practical option, but in the interests of time, I decided to speed things up and pulled out my revolver. The sight of the Webley curtailed further discussion, prompting the pilot to return to the wheelhouse and begin the process of turning his tugboat towards the mosque.
Within minutes we were chugging forward, closing the short distance to the island at, if not a high rate of knots, then at least at enough of a pace to feel like we were actually making progress. I kept the revolver trained on the hapless pilot, just to keep him focused on the task.
Ahead of us, the white walls of Haji Ali grew closer. Over the air came the metallic screeching of a tannoy being coaxed to life, and then the deep baritone of a voice.
‘They’re starting,’ said Suren.
I checked my watch. Twelve noon on the dot. In five years in this godforsaken country, I couldn’t recall another native event actually commencing at the advertised time.
Suren ordered the pilot to make for the spit of land in front of the mosque, where the stage had been set up and the faithful were gathered. The man shook his head.
‘Not possible, sahib. Rocks. Boat cannot get close. But there is landing ghat on other side,’ he ventured.
‘Go round then!’ Suren roared in relief. ‘Jaldi!’
The man put his foot down but other than an increase in the stench of diesel, not much seemed to happen. Gradually the vessel wallowed its way further out into the bay and around to the far side of the mosque. Over the tannoy came another screech, then the sound of a voice we both recognised.
‘Gulmohamed,’ said Suren. ‘He’s starting his speech.’
I looked to the pilot. ‘Can’t this bucket go any faster?’
He seemed to take my words as a personal insult.
‘She is going already top speed, sahib. If you want faster, maybe next time you hijack Cutty Sark?’ It was a brave statement, especially given I still had a gun pointed at him, but captains are often sensitive about their tubs.
Five minutes later, we rounded to the far side of the islet and the walls of Haji Ali gave way to an open space which doubled as a landing ghat. The vessel inched closer and then, when the water looked to be knee height, we jumped out and waded ashore.
The area looked deserted. I assumed all eyes were trained on the rally on the other side of the mosque. Suren and I scrambled up the steps, and in the shadow of its minaret, ran through the concourse towards the mosque’s arched entrance and the rally beyond.
Gulmohamed’s voice was louder now, his words clearly audible. The same went for the crowd’s roars of approval. Skidding to a halt, I surveyed the scene. In front of us were a thousand men crammed into a space half the size of a football pitch, all focused on the figure on the green-draped stage. I scanned the faces looking for any sign of Irani.
Beside me, Suren gasped for breath. ‘Where is he?’
‘I can’t see him.’
‘Maybe he’s making for the front of the crowd? He could get a clean shot from there.’
I was about to agree with him, but then stopped. If Irani was to shoot Gulmohamed here, in front of so many of his most ardent followers, he’d be signing his own death warrant. The crowd would rip him limb from limb before he managed to flee five paces. Whatever he was planning, it wasn’t a pistol shot up at the stage.
‘He’s not going to shoot him from the front,’ I said. I scanned the high windows and roof of the mosque buildings that looked onto the stage. ‘He’s planning a sniper shot from somewhere…’
‘No he’s not,’ said Suren.
I turned to him. His face was ashen.
‘Miss Colah translated a flyer. It talked about avenging the martyrs of Haji Ali. Plural. I think he means to bomb the crowd.’
I thought back. When I’d seen him on the causeway, Irani had been carrying a briefcase. I’d assumed it was to pick up a payment from Gulmohamed. But if what Suren was saying was true, the case was far more deadly.
‘We need to get these people out of here.’
With one hand close to my revolver, I plunged into the mass of men, pushing a path through them to the front. Any protest was drowned out by the sound of Gulmohamed’s voice echoing from the tannoy. Still, by the time we reached several feet from the front, even he noticed our approach. His tone changed. I didn’t understand the words, but the crowd’s reaction was enough to tell me we were in trouble. Before I knew it, men were turning towards me, grasping at my shirt and arms. For a split second, before my view was blocked by half a dozen irate souls, I saw Irani in his linen suit, making towards the curtained-off area backstage.
I felt hands on me. Fingers pulling at my shoulders. Another second and I’d lose any chance of stopping him. With what felt like my last reserves of strength, I wrenched my arm free, reached for my revolver and fired into the air. The effect was instantaneous. Even as the sound of the shot reverberated off the walls, the hands that had sought to grab me fell away as though hit by an electric charge. Men fell to the floor in a fruitless search for cover. Only Irani kept running.
By now he’d reached the entrance to the backstage area. He was about to disappear behind the screens. Onstage, Gulmohamed’s minders were running to his side.
Free of the crowd and with Suren beside me, I chased after Irani, but something felt wrong. It was several precious seconds before I realised what. I stopped in my tracks.
‘The briefcase!’
Suren stared at me. ‘What?’
‘Irani came in with a briefcase. He’s dropped it somewhere. We need to find it,’ I said.
Suren swallowed hard. ‘I’ll find it. You go after Irani.’
‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘Irani can wait. We’ll find it together.’
‘These people will tear you apart if you stay here!’
I didn’t like it, putting him in harm’s way, and made to remonstrate, but he cut me short.
‘There’s no time to argue,’ he said. ‘Now go after him!’
He was right of course, but I couldn’t let him go back into the crowd unarmed.
‘Sergeant,’ I shouted, and threw him my revolver. ‘Be careful.’