Chain of Custody Read online

  Gowda grinned at his cheek and pulled his phone out and made a call. ‘Shenoy, where are you?’ he asked. ‘I am coming over. Don’t leave till I get there.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘Please.’

  He started the Bullet and gestured for the boy to climb on to the back seat. ‘Hold tight,’ he said.

  In the rearview mirror, Gowda looked at the boy. His face, smeared with dirt, was a picture of happiness. Gowda smiled. He took a small lane that led towards the Airport Road. He saw the boy’s eyes widen as they went up the flyover; the sparkle of delight as he raised the accelerator, causing the Bullet to reverberate with its classic note: duk-duk-duk. Another one to the fold, Gowda thought ruefully.

  At Sahakarnagar, he pulled into the service road and turned into another lane. He drew up outside a barber shop. Shenoy was seated in a chair, flicking through a magazine. He looked up. His head and jaw bore clear signs of the barber’s touch.

  Shenoy walked to the door. ‘How did you know I would be at this very barber shop?’

  Gowda grinned. ‘Didn’t you tell me you have been coming here for the last six years? Why would you change now?’

  Shenoy gestured with his freshly-shaven chin. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘A young friend. Is there somewhere nearby we can go for a coffee?’

  Shenoy looked at his watch pointedly. ‘Coffee?’

  Gowda grinned. ‘Lunch then, and it’s on me!’

  Shenoy got on to his Kinetic Honda. ‘Follow me,’ he said, putting his helmet on.

  On the main road was a vegetarian restaurant that Shenoy seemed familiar with. It had mirrors on one wall, festooned with artificial vines and grapes and flowers that would have made a botanist and an oenologist bang their heads on the mirror in puzzlement: How did a lotus grow on a grapevine? There were granite tables with plush red velvet banquettes. There was an industrial-sized pedestal fan at the entrance and an overpowering smell of incense that was guaranteed to take your breath away just in case the decor didn’t. The boy’s eyes widened, as though Gowda had taken him to a five-star hotel. A matter of perspective, Gowda thought. That’s all there is to what amazes us or tires us.

  ‘What do you want to eat?’ he asked.

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘Have you had lunch?’ he asked. The boy shook his head again.

  Shenoy watched amused as Gowda had the boy sliding onto the bench and then seated himself at the edge. Shenoy slid into the seat on the other side of the table.

  When the waiter came, Gowda ordered a paper dosa for the boy and a curd rice for himself. Shenoy wanted a full thali.

  ‘Are you really that hungry or just making me pay for dragging you here?’ Gowda drawled.

  Shenoy sipped his water and didn’t bother responding.

  Gowda looked at the boy and said, ‘If there is something else you want to eat after the dosa, let me know.’

  The boy nodded. His fingers were sliding along the edge of the red-velvet bench in wonder.

  Gowda continued, ‘This man is a great artist. He can draw a face just from a description you give him.’

  ‘Really?’ The boy’s eyes shone. ‘Can you draw my brother?’

  Gowda shook his head. ‘That’s too easy. He has you as a reference point. What about the people who stayed upstairs? The ones who left no Pepsi for you.’ Gowda turned and clicked his finger at the waiter who had taken their order. ‘A Pepsi,’ he said.

  The boy smiled. ‘I saw the woman. I can describe her. I didn’t see the man or the girl.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Gowda said. Shenoy sighed.

  The dosa had been folded to look like a conical hat. It was fragrant with ghee and was accompanied by three small bowls of green chutney, red chutney and sambhar. The boy looked at the plate of food before him and the can of Pepsi, and swallowed visibly.

  Gowda opened the can.

  ‘Can I keep the can?’ the boy asked. Gowda nodded. ‘Start eating,’ Gowda said gently.

  Shenoy cleared his throat. ‘So describe this woman to me.’

  The boy cocked his head. ‘How do you describe someone?’

  Shenoy looked up from his plate lined with several small dishes. ‘You tell me if she has a narrow or big forehead, the shape of the eyes, if her nose is thin or fat …’

  The boy smiled. Shenoy pushed aside his plate and pulled out a pad from his sling bag. ‘Helli,’ he said.

  Gowda watched as the pencil flew over the paper. A couple of times Shenoy looked up to meet Gowda’s gaze. When it was done, the boy’s face split into a wide grin. ‘This is exactly the woman.’

  Gowda and Shenoy looked at each other. It was the same woman the flower seller had described.

  Gowda looked at the boy thoughtfully. ‘Have you seen the building owner?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘He comes to the shop once in a few months, I am told. I am new to that shop.’

  ‘If he ever comes, will you take a good look and call me?’ Gowda asked.

  The boy nodded. He didn’t know what it was all about, but he didn’t really care. As Gowda and Shenoy finished their meal, he drained his Pepsi to the last drop. A belch grew in him and erupted with a satisfying hiss of bubbles in his nasal passage. He clutched the Pepsi can as Gowda started the bike.

  At home, Gowda was greeted by the sight of a wide open door and a son who looked stoned even with his eyes closed.

  The boy was in the living room with one of his legs hooked over the back of the sofa he had sprawled himself upon. He looked like a rabbit, Gowda thought, with his earphones on.

  Gowda felt a familiar surge of irritation. ‘How did you get in?’ he asked, looming over the boy.

  There was no response.

  Gowda bent down and yanked the earphones off. Roshan almost leapt in the air. ‘What the fu …’

  The word was never finished when he saw his father’s frown.

  ‘Hello, Appa,’ he said, unhooking his leg and sitting up. He smiled.

  Gowda managed to turn his grimace into a smile. Who had taught the boy this? He remembered his mother whispering in his ear when his father growled at him. Smile at him when he frowns at you. He will smile back. That is what a smile can do.

  Either his mother had returned as a ghost to whisper in the boy’s ears or he had been reading one of those self-help books or he was on some substance.

  Gowda dropped into a chair. ‘Where’s Amma?’ Roshan asked.

  ‘She had to go back,’ Gowda said.

  ‘Why? Did you quarrel?’ Roshan asked, as if he were enquiring about the water table, not of any particular consequence to him.

  ‘No, we didn’t quarrel. She had to go back because the health minister may come by to the hospital and she needs to make sure that the medicine vials are dusted and the X-ray machine dressed up,’ Gowda said.

  Roshan grinned. ‘Thank god.’

  ‘Why? She wanted us to go to a mall, watch a movie, eat at a restaurant, etc.’

  ‘Exactly. I was dreading it. She asked me if I wanted to go to Amoeba. I wish she’d remember I am twenty, not four, to be taken to a gaming arcade for kids.’

  Gowda shrugged. Then he asked again, ‘But how did you get in?’

  ‘Amma gave me a key.’ Roshan grinned.

  Gowda nibbled on his lip. The boy smiled too much. What was he on? There was a new cockiness to him as well.

  Gowda glanced at his watch. He would go to the station, he decided. There was nothing else for him to do.

  Gowda sat at his desk feeling a strange restlessness gather in him. The files on his desk needed to be dealt with. Neelgubbi had changed. No one saw it more than a policeman. It wasn’t just the new high-rise apartment blocks and the arrival of fast-food outlets; the gyms and spas, the sports centre and the liquor marts – it was the nature of crime. Where once the police were called in to settle a squabble between two neighbours about a wandering cow or solve a petty burglary, large-scale gambling, extortion, drugs and prostitution were the new order of crime that Gowda and his
station had to contend with.

  From the window he saw the head constable talking to two men who looked like they had stopped by on their way from an evening stroll. One wore a t-shirt, shorts and Crocs. The other wore a t-shirt pulled over loose track pants. Who were they?

  Across the yard, Gajendra’s eyes met his. A few minutes later, he was knocking at his door.

  ‘Who is that Laurel and Hardy team?’ he asked.

  Gajendra smiled. He could see Gowda was in a curious mood, wanting to scratch an itch without knowing where the itch was.

  ‘They are from that gated community, sir, by the lake. They want to know if they can plant trees here.’

  ‘Plant trees. Why?’ Gowda asked.

  ‘They have some extra saplings and no place to plant them.’

  Gowda nodded. ‘Let them.’

  ‘But sir,’ Gajendra said, looking distinctly unhappy, ‘who will water them? Besides, aren’t we moving from here?’

  Gowda pulled at the skin of his nose. ‘The trees will be here when we are gone. And I am not talking about the new police station. As for watering them, tell Laurel and Hardy to handle it till the saplings grow three feet high. After which we will figure out something.’

  Gajendra went out, wondering where Santosh was. Gowda might want to take up a puppy adoption drive if he didn’t move ahead with the Nandita case.

  By the time Gowda had read through the fourth file on his desk, the phone was ringing. It was Santosh.

  ‘We haven’t been able to get anything on the landlord, sir. Apparently the shop in the building is leased for two years. There is a rental agreement. The tyre shop owner will bring it to the station on Saturday.’

  ‘Why not later today?’ Gowda growled.

  ‘He says it is in the bank locker in Dharwad,’ Santosh said.

  Gowda muttered an expletive that must have caused Santosh to flinch. He could hear Ratna ask, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Are you coming back to the station?’ Gowda asked.

  ‘We are on our way to Bagaluru station, sir,’ Santosh said. ‘There is a juvenile offender there we need to question.’

  ‘Let’s meet tomorrow, first thing in the morning. We need to discuss what to do next,’ Gowda said as he hung up. He needed a smoke.

  As he stood under the mango tree by the almost dried-up lake, away from the comings and goings of the frontyard, Gowda was struck by a thought. The MLA’s name had already appeared in three files. The man was a lowdown bastard. But perhaps he had something that might lead them to Nandita. It wasn’t the orthodox thing to do, ask a criminal for help, but Gowda didn’t play by the rulebook anyway.

  Gowda parked outside the MLA’s house. It was called Bella Manne. The white house in which the man who dressed only in white lived. Outside, in the driveway, was a fleet of white cars, including a Jaguar. The gates were wide open and a few feet beyond them was an arch from which a huge bell was strung with a bell rope. Gowda gaped. Who on earth did the MLA think he was? The Mughal emperor Jahangir with his bell of justice?

  Gowda saw the MLA get into a car as he walked through the gate. He stopped, unsure what to do next. He had come on a whim. The car pulled up alongside him and a window rolled down. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ MLA Papanna asked.

  ‘I had a few queries about the landfill on the north of Rampura lake, the garbage truck accident outside the school and the assault on one Gopal Reddy in Bilishivale,’ Gowda said without any of the mandatory preamble.

  The man looked at him and said, ‘You needn’t have come all this way yourself. You could have sent a constable and my PA would have given him whatever information was required.’

  Gowda shrugged. ‘I wanted to meet you, sir.’

  The man flashed his plank teeth. ‘In which case, do make an appointment with my PA, Gowda sir, and you can ask me whatever you want. My life is an open book. Like my doorway. All you need to do is ring the bell and I will make myself available.’

  When the MLA drove away, Gowda was inclined to do what Head Constable Gajendra did as a preamble to all interrogation, to suggest total contempt: pretend to spit on the floor with an aa-thoo and snarl, ‘Lowde ka baal!’

  Instead, he decided to go home.

  The house was empty when Gowda arrived. The gate lights were on and the porch light too. He must have missed Roshan by a few minutes. Usually, Gowda came home to a dark house. That was what he hated most about living alone. He hadn’t thought Roshan was the caring kind. But surprise, surprise …

  Gowda changed into track pants, pulled on his running shoes and set off on a brisk walk. If he walked for an hour, he would pour himself a drink. That would be his reward.

  Fifteen minutes later, he paused in his tracks. Would Urmila be free to see him this evening? He had cancelled their dinner plan. Did he dare turn up at her doorstep, expecting to be fed, indulged and loved? Gowda sighed. He didn’t blame her for getting Mr Right. At least he was constant.

  I went back to the godown in Sampigehalli. I needed to see her again.

  ‘Ah, the chhote nawab is back!’ Daulat Ali said, his mouth twisting into a smirk.

  I tried to hide the sheepishness I felt. But Daulat Ali wasn’t going to let it be.

  ‘Can’t keep it in your pants, huh?’ he said, reaching to cup my balls with a laugh.

  ‘Take your hands off me,’ I said, moving back. ‘And don’t ever do that again!’

  He flinched. I had learnt my lesson from the thekedar well. I knew how to melt ice with my smile. I also knew how to freeze the marrow with a certain look and tone of voice.

  ‘Who is it? Moina again?’ he asked, turning away.

  ‘What about the new girl?’ I walked towards the cubicle she had been in.

  He put his hand on my arm. ‘No, not her. The thekedar has said he will decide when she is to enter the business.’ I was not quick enough to hide my dismay. Daulat Ali seized on it and added, ‘I think he’s keeping her for some big fish.’

  ‘Ah, all right.’ I shrugged. ‘A cunt is a cunt …’ I feigned a nonchalance that I didn’t feel. I didn’t want Daulat Ali reporting to the thekedar what he had seen on my face. In this world you cannot trust anyone. Not even your shadow. For even that changes with the light.

  ‘Tell Moina to clean up,’ I said, walking back to the main door. ‘I’ll be back in half an hour.’

  When I returned I had a few things in a plastic bag. The metal shutters were down. What the hell was going on, I wondered, banging on them.

  Daulat Ali appeared it. He looked grim.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  ‘That new randi ki ladli …’ he murmured. ‘She tried to run away.’

  ‘How do you know she’s a whore’s daughter?’ I asked with an artlessness that I knew would set his teeth on edge.

  ‘Oii chhote nawab.’ He glowered at me. ‘Don’t be so fucking literal! You are so good at teaching people lessons, aren’t you? Go in there and teach her a lesson. If I do, she won’t have any teeth left.’

  I walked into the cubicle. She was crouched on the floor, her cheeks wet with tear stains. She stared at me defiantly.

  ‘Get up,’ I said in Kannada. Moina had said she was from Bangalore.

  ‘Anna,’ she said. ‘Help me, please.’

  ‘I will.’ I sat by her side. ‘But you have to do as I say.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Do you trust me, Nandita?’

  I saw her eyes widen in surprise. She hadn’t expected me to remember her name. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. I smiled then. I would have to teach her to trust me.

  ‘Scream,’ I said. ‘Scream as if you are in pain.’

  She stared at me. ‘Why?’

  I lit a cigarette with my lighter. I saw the fear in her eyes. I brought it towards her. She whimpered.

  ‘Scream,’ I said under my breath.

  But she wouldn’t. So I stubbed the flaming end of the cigarette on the inner side of my upper arm. The smell of burnt skin. The charred flesh. />
  She screamed then. Again and again. Three long screams followed by one that stopped suddenly.

  Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Anna, what did you do? Why?’

  ‘Because I cannot hurt you. And because I want you to trust me,’ I said, feeling the burn sting. I reached across and caressed her cheek. ‘Nandita, my name is Krishna. I will always be here for you.’

  ‘I’m scared, anna,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’ I took her hand in mine. ‘When you’re scared, recite the multiplication tables … It will make you feel less scared.’

  I got up and left the bag behind. I had meant to ask Moina to give it to her. It had a bar of chocolate, a magazine and a hair band. I had no idea what girls liked. But something told me she would like these.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ I said.

  She looked at me wordlessly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll make sure no one does anything to hurt you.’

  She smiled then. My girl.

  Moina frowned. She smelled chocolate when she entered the cubicle. She saw Nandita shove a book behind her. ‘What is that?’ she pointed.

  Nandita shook her head. Then she held out the magazine and the last bit of chocolate.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Moina gestured, popping the chocolate into her mouth. It slid like silk down her throat.

  Nandita flushed. ‘Anna!’ she said, gesturing to suggest someone taller than her.

  ‘Krishna?’ Moina asked. So that was what had happened. Daulat Ali had asked her to get ready for Krishna. She thought she had heard his voice. And he had come to see this brat instead of her.

  Nandita nodded.

  ‘Did he fuck you?’ Moina asked.

  Nandita looked at her uncomprehendingly.

  Moina exhaled and smiled. ‘I suppose not. He is mine. Do you hear me? Don’t try and take him away.’

  Suddenly the curtain was pulled rudely aside. Daulat Ali stood there looking at them.

  ‘Where did that chocolate come from?’

  Nandita shrunk into the corner.

  ‘K—’ she began when Moina butted in.

  ‘One of my customers left it behind with the book. I gave the book to her and we shared the chocolate.’