Chain of Custody Read online

  ‘I knew they were with you!’ the flower seller sniffed as she saw the two men draw closer to the table they were seated at. ‘The older one was looking at the pineapple as if it might bite him. And the younger one was fingering the eggplants as if they were his goolies.’

  Ratna flushed. ‘Watch your mouth,’ she snapped.

  ‘Why? Don’t policemen have balls?’ the flower seller persisted, enjoying Ratna’s discomfiture.

  ‘Whether they do or don’t is not your business,’ Ratna said in a furious voice.

  Gowda’s eyebrows rose. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked as he pulled up a chair.

  ‘Nothing,’ Ratna murmured.

  ‘Policemen’s goolies,’ the flower seller said, waiting to revel in the embarrassment that would pop up on the men’s faces. Santosh spluttered and choked on the water he was sipping.

  Gowda’s eyebrows rose higher, but he didn’t allow any emotion to show on his face even as Ratna hissed, ‘Shut up!’

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ Gowda asked, beckoning to a waiter who didn’t seem very interested.

  ‘Rum and water,’ the woman said with a bland expression.

  ‘Oii Kamala, do you realize who you’re with?’ Ratna said, her eyes narrowing in anger. ‘This isn’t your wine shaap and we are not your cronies you share a quarter with.’

  Santosh looked at Ratna. Was Ratna really as worldly wise as she sounded? He had met other women ASIs, women inspectors, but they had all spent years in the force. How did Ratna know about such things? What had she done before she entered the service?

  Gowda waved an arm airily. ‘A Khoday’s triple X and water for her. What about you, Ratna and Santosh? Whisky, brandy, gin?’ he asked.

  Ratna smiled. Santosh swallowed.

  ‘Three coffees,’ Gowda said, wanting to reach out and box Santosh’s ears. Couldn’t the boy understand a joke?

  The artist and the drinks arrived together. Shenoy looked at the tableaux before him and his eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline.

  ‘I wouldn’t do this for anyone but you, sir,’ the portrait artist said, before pulling a chair out.

  ‘I know,’ Gowda said, holding out his hand to the man. The portrait artist shook Gowda’s hand. Santosh wondered what the story was. The flower seller took a deep drink of her rum and water. She wiped her mouth and said, ‘Can we get started? Some of us have to get back to work …’

  Gowda frowned, and the flower seller’s mouth gulped air. Good, Ratna thought. Time he stopped being so easy on her. That was the trouble with petty criminals. Their sense of self-importance made them forget they were there on sufferance more than anything else.

  ‘Quiet!’ Santosh said. Ratna darted a look at him. Maybe he wasn’t as meek as he made himself out to be.

  Shenoy, as if on cue, opened his bag and pulled out a sheaf of cards.

  ‘What were her eyes like?’ he asked, taking out a pad and a thick, flat pencil.

  The flower seller frowned. ‘Like everyone’s, I guess.’

  Ratna opened her mouth. Gowda held up his hand.

  ‘Kamalamma,’ he said. ‘There are four of us around the table here. Do all of us have the same kind of eyes?’

  Shenoy looked at Gowda in amazement. The Gowda he once knew would have hollered. This was a new Gowda, an improved version. His fingers itched to draw him.

  The flower seller peered into each one of their faces.

  ‘Her eyes are like his,’ she said, gesturing to Santosh with her chin. ‘Wide and quite big. Like a calf’s … if you know what I mean. Just about to be led to slaughter. Her eyebrows are thick.’

  Shenoy handed her a sheaf of cards. She picked the ones that she thought were the closest.

  ‘Her face is like a mango seed that’s been sucked on,’ the flower seller said, beginning to enjoy the process.

  Shenoy looked at Gowda as if to ask, what have you got me into? But he continued to sketch as she chose a nose like a pig’s and lips that were like Ratna’s. For a moment all of them stared at Ratna’s lips. Santosh, who hadn’t looked at her so carefully until then, saw she had nice lips. Not too full or too thin, with the ends curling upwards. Actually, he thought, she was nice everything.

  Shenoy held up a sheet of paper. ‘Anything like this?’

  The flower seller peered. ‘Make her older. She is an old woman, almost fifty.’

  Gowda looked away, glad that Urmila wasn’t anywhere nearby. Ever since Urmila’s fiftieth birthday, she hadn’t stopped talking about fifty being the new thirty.

  ‘And give her a side parting,’ the flower seller said suddenly.

  Shenoy made the changes and held it out to the flower seller.

  ‘Yes … this could be Mary,’ she said, shaking her head in amazement. ‘But you haven’t seen her. How did you do that? There was this man who walked away with my gold chain. Three sovereigns. The bastard pretended he would be there for me, wriggled into my life and home, and ran away with my gold chain. If I describe him to you, could you make a picture? I don’t need the police to take care of the rest …’

  Shenoy gazed at Gowda helplessly. Gowda looked at Ratna. She nodded and stood up. ‘Kamalamma, I think it’s time to go. We’ll take you back to your shop.’

  The flower seller made a face. ‘What was I thinking of, expecting you to help me? It’s always like that. Police or thieves, they want to be your best friends till they get what they need from you and then psss … you are a banana skin to be tossed aside.’

  ‘Kamalamma,’ Ratna’s voice rose in warning.

  Gowda leaned forward and looked at the flower seller. ‘When this is all sorted out, I’ll make sure that you get a picture of the man who cheated you. And we’ll help you find him. Now I need to get down to work. There is a missing child, Kamalamma, so if you hear anything …’ He gestured with his hand for her to leave.

  Santosh stood up to go with Ratna.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ the flower seller said. ‘Do you think I don’t know my way back?’

  Then, turning to Gowda, she said, ‘Thanks.’

  The English word hung like a beacon between the two of them. You can count on me, the light flashed.

  Santosh had a moment of epiphany. Gowda had gathered yet another recruit to his fold of informers. How smoothly it had been done.

  They waited as Shenoy did a fresh sketch of the face of the woman.

  ‘And check your personal mail tomorrow,’ Shenoy said as he was leaving. Gowda nodded, wondering what was coming his way.

  ‘Why did he leave the police force, sir?’ Santosh asked, looking at the sketch again.

  ‘Death threats. But he didn’t take them that seriously. He has a young daughter. Someone knocked her down as she rode her bicycle to school. Fortunately she fell on a heap of sand and not under the van that was approaching from the opposite direction. Maybe it was an accident or maybe it had been planned … But Shenoy put in his papers. He wasn’t going to take any chances, he said,’ Gowda said, remembering the fear in the man’s eyes. ‘We lost a superb portrait artist. The pity is that no one in the force even tried to hold him back …’

  ‘Except you,’ Santosh said.

  Gowda smiled. A narrow smile of resignation. ‘Except me … He had drawn an exact resemblance of a man who hadn’t been identified until then. It hadn’t been entered into the system when the accident happened. The drawing disappeared when Shenoy left.’

  ‘And no one pursued the matter?’ Ratna asked, watching Santosh wave frantically to the waiter.

  ‘They did but the next portrait artist came up with a face that resembled the Indian prime minister’s,’ Gowda said.

  The gate lights were on; as were the lights in the verandah and within the house. Who was in? Urmila had a key but she never came by without letting him know. It was an implicit understanding between the two of them. And even if it was her, she was not given to lighting up the house like the Mysore palace at Dussehra.

  He pushed the gate open
and drove his Bullet in. Mamtha, he thought, but how had she got in?

  He rang the bell. The door opened after a whole five minutes. Mamtha stood beaming at the doorway. He had a strange sense of déjà vu. Had it been only three nights ago when Urmila had stood there, beaming, the light behind her picking on the brown and gold hints in her hair?

  ‘You didn’t say you were coming,’ Gowda said.

  He saw the smile slip on Mamtha’s face and almost bit his tongue in remorse.

  ‘What a surprise!’ he tried again.

  ‘You don’t look too happy to see me,’ Mamtha said quietly.

  His gaze dropped. Then, with an effusiveness that sounded horribly false to even his ears, he said, ‘Why do you say that, Mamtha? I was just surprised …’

  If someone used that fake note of joy in their voice, I would reach across and slap them, Gowda thought. But apparently it seemed to satisfy Mamtha because she smiled and took his hand. ‘Why don’t you shower and change? And for once, can you not sit with a bottle till midnight? I am hungry too.’

  Gowda nodded and went meekly to their bedroom. He stood under the shower, telling himself, I must not. I must not compare Mamtha with Urmila. It is not fair to either woman.

  But only Mamtha could combine tenderness with censure, concern with the rasp of shrewish petulance, all in one breath. For as long as he could remember, it had been so. He sighed, turning the shower off. Why did he even expect something would change? Nothing would. Ever.

  When he had poured himself a drink, Mamtha came in with a sheaf of takeaway menus. ‘What’s happened to this area?’ she said, waving it at him. ‘Panda Express. Subway. Kabab Plaza, Koel’s Pizzeria.’

  Gowda smiled. ‘I told you the city will catch up with us one of these days.’ And then, remembering to say the right thing, he added, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to get a transfer back to Bangalore?’

  ‘Except that we still have no neighbours,’ she said, putting her glasses on.

  Mamtha, Gowda observed, had dyed her hair and made an effort with her appearance. She was wearing a pale pink cotton churidar kurta and had even painted her nails. What was going on?

  Over dinner Mamtha told him why she was here. He had been too afraid to ask. A two-day conference, she said. And Roshan would be coming too.

  ‘We can do things together like a family. Go to a mall, eat out, go for a movie. What do you think?’ she asked, leaning forward to touch his hand.

  Unbidden, a lyric floated into his head: ‘So, so you can tell … blue skies from pain.’

  What was that? A line from Pink Floyd. Urmila and he used to listen to it together. Sharing a Walkman, the right earpiece in his ear and the left one in her left ear. Oh fuck, he thought, he had promised Urmila that they would have dinner at her home on Wednesday. What now?

  ‘You don’t look like you want to,’ Mamtha said, glaring at him.

  ‘No, no, I was just running the case load through my head,’ he said quickly.

  ‘It’s not as if Bangalore city has just one policeman!’ she snapped.

  ‘Mamtha,’ he said. ‘I didn’t say no. I was just scheduling stuff in my head.’

  ‘Hmm …’ she said, rising. As she cleared the table, Gowda told her about Nandita. Mamtha listened quietly. When Gowda was done, she said thoughtfully, ‘Poor Shanthi, I can’t even imagine what I would do if our Roshan went missing.’

  A moment later, she added, ‘I did wonder at the state of the house. Shanthi is lazy, but not this slovenly. The house was a mess when I walked in. I guess this explains it.’

  Gowda looked at her for a long second. Then he went to the verandah and lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, telling himself: Gowda, calm down. Calm down. There’s still the night to get through.

  Later in bed, he made the mandatory move. She lifted his hand away from around her waist gently and said, ‘I am tired. It’s been a long day.’

  They slept. Man and wife. The oak and the cypress.

  10 MARCH, TUESDAY

  Shanthi looked at the printout. ‘So this is the woman who took my daughter?’ she asked Gowda.

  ‘That’s what we believe,’ Head Constable Gajendra said.

  ‘Do you know if it’s her or not?’ Shanthi snapped. Gajendra frowned. Gowda saw it was time to step in.

  ‘Shanthi,’ he said in a tone that hinted at censure. Watch it, don’t cross any boundaries, it said. ‘The portrait is done based on a description we were given by someone who saw her with a girl who matched the description of Nandita. That’s all we have to go by.’

  ‘It’s been seven days, sir. My child is out there in the hands of god knows who …’ Shanthi’s eyes filled up.

  ‘Have you checked the morgues?’ Mamtha asked Gowda, walking in from the kitchen where she had been inspecting the contents of the cupboards.

  Gowda glared at her. Shanthi wiped her eyes with the pallu of her sari. ‘That’s what her father said too. But I know my child is alive. Within me I would know if she wasn’t.’

  Mamtha looked a little shamefaced. She hadn’t meant for it to sound like it had come out. Sometimes, she thought, no matter what she said to Borei, she would never get it right.

  Shanthi looked at the printout. ‘You can keep it if you want,’ Gowda said, more to puncture the awkward silence in the room.

  Shanthi nodded. ‘Thanks,’ she said, turning to go back into the house where chores awaited her.

  When Gajendra had left, Gowda turned towards Mamtha. ‘You …’ he began.

  ‘Yes, I know I shouldn’t have said that,’ she said quietly. ‘I was thinking like a doctor and not as a mother. You know how it is. You are a policeman. Sometimes, in our line of duty, we have to say the most unpleasant things because that is the truth.’

  Gowda’s jaw almost dropped. This was a first for Mamtha. To admit to a mistake. ‘What time is your conference?’ he asked.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘There is an orientation at 11 a.m. It’s going to be a long day. Then cocktails and dinner.’

  Gowda’s eyebrows rose. ‘Who is hosting it? Surely not the health department?’

  Mamtha made a face. ‘If it was them, it would be bhajis and coffee. One-by-two coffee.’

  Gowda smiled. A queer sadness filled him. This side of Mamtha was something he had never seen before. The less-than-perfect Mamtha who admitted to mistakes and could make a joke or two.

  ‘Do you want me to drop you?’ he asked.

  ‘That would be helpful. It’s at the Ritz. I don’t even know where that is.’

  ‘The Ritz,’ Gowda guffawed. ‘Wow … what kind of medical conference is this?’

  Mamtha smiled. ‘Pharma companies have a lot of money to flash around to dazzle provincial doctors like me.’

  ‘We should be going then,’ he said.

  When Mamtha stepped out, Gowda looked at her, dressed in a blue silk sari with a deep yellow border and said, ‘You should wear bright clothes more often. You look nice.’

  Mamtha rolled her eyes. ‘A compliment from Inspector Gowda. I don’t believe this …’

  They didn’t speak much in the car. Gowda cleared his throat a few times to start a conversation but couldn’t find anything to say. Eventually he began. ‘This case is really worrying me, Mamtha.’

  ‘Which case?’ she asked.

  ‘Shanthi’s daughter Nandita going missing. This city is not what it used to be. I …’

  She held up her hand, mouthing, ‘Just a moment’ as her mobile rang.

  For the rest of the drive, Mamtha was on her mobile. Do we ever really know anyone, he asked himself as he heard her morph into several women over the fifty-five minutes it took them to reach the Ritz. Different Mamthas he hadn’t encountered before: jocular, teasing, gossipy, giggly …

  ‘If you let me know an hour in advance, I’ll have you picked up,’ he said as they drove into the hotel.

  ‘In a police jeep?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t be silly …’ he said and wished he hadn’t when he saw her
face. She had been joking. What on earth was she on? Antidepressants?

  He turned onto Museum Road and went towards Lavelle Road as he knew he was going to. It was best that he explain to Urmila in person rather than on the phone about cancelling dinner on Wednesday.

  She would be home, he knew. It was her book club day. Though why on earth people had to get together to discuss a book after they had read it was beyond him.

  Urmila opened the door with a little gasp of joy. ‘G, what brings you here?’

  He saw her glance at his hand. Had she expected him to bring her flowers? He wasn’t that sort of man. She knew that.

  Gowda had meant to lead up to it gently but the chaos in his head made him blurt it out. ‘I had to drop Mamtha at the Ritz.’

  ‘Oh,’ Urmila said. But it was Lady Urmila who added, ‘How nice of you.’ And then after a pause, ‘Would you like to come in?’

  He followed her into the living room that took his breath away, each time. It was a room out of a magazine, just like the rest of the flat. The leather sofas that invited you to sink into them; the plump silk cushions and what she said was a Persian carpet; the coffee table strewn tastefully with silver thingies; the occasional tables and the table lamps. And on a gatelegged table a giant glass vase of flowers.

  His eyes took in the indoor plants and the paintings on the walls – Achuthan Kudallur, Yusuf Arakkal, B. Prabha, S.G. Vasudev, and even a Hussain. She had pointed out the paintings to him the first time he had visited her. He saw there was a new painting and the child-like squiggles suggested she must have paid a fortune for it. Didn’t artists paint landscapes or people any more, he wondered as he walked towards a sofa.

  ‘Would you like coffee? A drink?’ she asked.

  Gowda paused and touched her elbow. ‘Don’t be like this, Urmila …’

  ‘Don’t be like what?’ Her eyebrows rose with a hint of scorn.

  ‘Don’t mess with me. You know what I’m talking about. I came over because I wanted to see you,’ Gowda said, his voice hardening of its own volition.