Chain of Custody (32 page)

He wound Tina's dupatta around Abdul's leg and stretched it across the space between the berths to tie it to her leg. Then he fastened the other end around his wrist.

‘Just tug it if you need something,' he said.

Tina saw the elderly couple glance at each other, hiding their smiles.

At first she thought she would have a few hours of reprieve. A few hours later he tugged at her leg and she got up. He followed her with Abdul in tow. This time he made Abdul do it while she watched. Next time he made the two of them do it together. He left them alone after that.

But they didn't know that. All they knew was, as long as they were on the train, one more ordeal had been added to the list of what they would have to endure.

‘Get ready. We are getting off at the next station,' Mohan said.

Tina felt Abdul press into her. She touched his shoulder.

The train ground to a halt and they got out.

Tina read the station clock. It was 4.30 p.m. and the station was called Krishnarajapuram. All railway stations looked alike, she thought. It didn't matter where she was as long as it was not on a train. She shuddered. The last twenty hours must have been the worst hours of her life.

Now what, she thought. Could there be anything worse awaiting her?

No one spoke. What could they say?

The five of them collectively would have known only a fraction of what she had endured in a few days' time.

Michael sat frozen in his chair. Santosh stood as if he had turned to stone. Ratna went to sit by Tina. She put her arm around her. The girl pushed it away.

Urmila rose slowly and walked to the door. Gowda followed her outside. She turned to him wordlessly and he held her. The two of them clung to each other.

Something clicked in Gowda's head. He remembered Santosh narrating to him the brothel guard Daulat Ali's conversation.
He had said ‘thekedar'. So had Tina. Who was this mysterious thekedar who seemed to be everywhere and yet nowhere?

Gowda moved Urmila gently away from him. ‘Tina,' he said, going back in. ‘Do you remember the thekedar man?'

She nodded.

6.00 p.m.

Shenoy looked at Gowda in disbelief. ‘Are you serious?'

Gowda didn't smile. ‘Hear me out,' he said.

When Gowda finished what he had to say, Shenoy rubbed his eyes. ‘When do you want me to see her?' he asked after a pause.

‘I will get both children in the room so we get a definite portrait of this man,' Gowda said. Then he added, ‘Thanks.'

Shenoy shook his head. ‘How do you do this, Gowda? How do you live without losing your faith in humanity?'

‘Who said I had faith in humanity?'

‘If you didn't, you wouldn't be doing this, trying to make things better,' Shenoy said, preparing to leave. ‘The layers are way beyond what you and I can fathom, Gowda. You know that the traffickers will have clout that extends high up in the world. That they will do everything possible to make it go away?' Shenoy continued as he gathered up his pencils and sketchpad.

Gowda nodded.

‘And you still want to do it?'

‘I don't have a choice,' Gowda said. ‘I have to live with myself.'

8.00 p.m.

At the station, Santosh sat with a disgruntled expression, reading a report. ‘The fingerprint reports are here,' he said.

‘And?' Gowda said, dropping into a chair.

‘Sid's fingerprints are on the door, glass and gate. But not inside,' Santosh mumbled.

‘What about the vehicle number?' Gowda asked, looking at his watch.

‘We'll get a trace on it first thing in the morning,' Santosh said.

Where had the day gone? It was past eight. He saw he had a missed call. Stanley.

Gowda picked the phone up and called him. What had come up?

‘So what was all that about on Friday night?' Stanley asked.

Gowda flushed. The truth was he didn't remember much. Urmila had played for him the audio message he sent her. ‘I didn't know you cared for me so much.' She grinned. ‘I especially like the bit about comparing my teeth to Basmati rice. Are they really that long?' She had prodded him in his ribs.

‘I really don't know what happened,' he had told her and she had accepted it just like that.

But Stanley wasn't so easy to placate. ‘I'm in Kothanur to meet a relative. I'll drop in at your place in about half an hour.' Stanley hung up before Gowda could make an excuse to put him off.

Gowda was showered and dressed when the bell rang. He had given his teeth a good brush as well.

Stanley Sagayaraj stood at the door, eyeing Gowda curiously.

‘Good evening, sir,' Gowda said.

Stanley nodded, continuing to look at Gowda.

‘What,' he asked, ‘is wrong?'

‘Let's say I am relieved more than anything else,' Stanley said, following Gowda in.

‘Why?' Gowda frowned as Stanley lifted the ashtray and sniffed at the butts. ‘What's up, Stanley?'

‘Do you remember calling me on Friday night?'

Gowda smiled sheepishly. ‘No …'

‘Between that call and what the ACP has been saying, I came here expecting to see you drunk and lolling on your side along with empty bottles of Old Monk,' Stanley said.

‘I don't drink like I used to,' Gowda said quietly.

‘I can see that. You have lost some weight too.'

‘What were you sniffing at the butts for?' Gowda said, wondering if he should offer Stanley a drink. He needed one very badly after the sort of day he'd had. ‘Having said that, I am going to pour myself a drink. Do you want one?'

Stanley smiled. ‘Sure.' Then he looked at Gowda and asked, ‘Were you stoned on Friday night?'

Gowda paused. ‘What did I actually say and do?'

Stanley grinned. ‘You don't want to know.'

Gowda said nothing. He placed the glasses on a table and brought a small bowl of peanuts and Bombay mixture from the kitchen.

Then he went into Roshan's room and pulled out one of the rice grain-like things from the inner pocket. He held it out to Stanley. ‘I took two or three of these on top of two drinks,' he said.

Stanley held it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘That explains it,' he said, his eyes suddenly grim.

‘What is it?' Gowda felt a huge ball of dismay and worry fill his chest.

‘Molly. Love drug. Or just E. It's a party drug,' Stanley said. ‘Your son's?'

Gowda nodded. He was going to have a serious talk with Roshan. Weed was one thing, but the moment Roshan moved to hard stuff, it was time Gowda stepped in and told him a few home truths.

‘How is the murder investigation coming along?' Stanley asked.

Gowda shrugged. ‘ACP Vidyaprasad would like us to wrap it up on circumstantial evidence. But I can't do that. There are more horrifying things buried underneath.'

Stanley held Gowda's gaze. ‘You think so? Do you have any evidence to support it?'

‘Both, sir,' Gowda said. His one-time college basketball captain wasn't someone who needed to be convinced. But Gowda wanted to explain to someone the case he was building.

Stanley listened without interrupting. Neither of them was new to the world of trafficking. Stanley had in fact set up a few raids. But children as sex slaves was something else. It made them feel hopeless. For each child rescued, there were ten children who were lost.

‘Let me know if you need me to step in,' Stanley said as he rose.

17 M
ARCH
, T
UESDAY

3.00 a.m.

G
owda woke up in a cold clammy sweat.

He turned the fan regulator as high as it would go but an incisive heat spread under his skin.

Global warming, he thought. Trees cut in the Amazon basin were leading to climate change, Urmila said. You don't need to look that far, he thought, propping the pillows against the headboard. Trees being cut all over Bangalore and the buildings that seemed
to pop up overnight like mushrooms after a thunderstorm, they caused it too. Climate change. And not just change in weather patterns but human behaviour too. There were over five lakh migrant workers in Bangalore, most of them men. They would do whatever it took to satiate their needs and feel in control instead of languishing as lowly pawns in the fabric of society.

Gowda shut his eyes. He needed to go back to sleep but he couldn't. He wished he were at the station with all the information at arm's reach. Gowda swore to buy a laptop and learn how to use it. He needed to. The society that he had to deal with was racing ahead at a speed that defied time, and if he didn't keep up, its crime and criminals would outrun him even before he began to comprehend what was happening.

There was a sound from the living room. Gowda stiffened. He rose and pulled out the sturdy Maglite flashlight he had got a friend from Dubai to bring him. He picked up the hockey stick he kept in his bedroom.

He padded quietly towards the living room. He hadn't forgotten how he had been ambushed and beaten up a few months ago while working on the Bhuvana case, and he wasn't going to be caught unawares again.

When Gowda's flashlight swung towards the face of the intruder, he heard a yelp. It was Roshan walking on tiptoe, trying not to walk into a wall or furniture. He put his hand up to cover his eyes from the bright light. Gowda reached for the light switch. The boy shrank into himself. Gowda looked at him for a moment. ‘Go to bed,' Gowda said.

‘Appa …' the boy began, seeing his father's grim expression.

‘Roshan, we'll talk in the morning. Go to bed now.'

He watched his son kick off his sneakers and drop into his bed fully clothed.

A few minutes later, he heard a retching sound.

Gowda ran into his son's bedroom.

He sighed. He fetched the plastic bucket from the bathroom and placed it on the floor. Then he found a face towel, dampened it and wiped his son's brow and face. He pulled the covers over Roshan and then lay down beside him. He didn't want Roshan choking on his own vomit.

What made one an exemplary father? One who hectored his son and forbade him from experimenting or excess? Or one who let his son be and cleaned his vomit and hoped the boy would learn from each experiment? Gowda stared at the ceiling, wide awake. From the trees around, he could hear birdsong and the rolling notes of the crow pheasant.

He would let Roshan sleep it out, Gowda decided when the clock struck six. He would go as early as he could to the station.

9.00 a.m.

‘What have you got for me?' Gowda asked when he had settled at his desk with a cup of tea.

Gajendra and Santosh sat across him. Santosh pushed a file towards him. ‘We have the vehicle details, sir.'

‘And PC Byrappa talked to the pig farm people. The watchman said they don't bother about the quarry side because “what idiot would risk it at night?” But he did say that he had heard the dogs bark at nine in the night and then again around eleven.'

‘What do the fingerprints reveal?' Gowda asked, taking a long sip of the tea.

‘That's the curious thing, sir. Various fingerprints in the house. But nothing in the living room or on the weapon used.'

‘It's been wiped down.' Gowda's mouth turned into a grim line. It was early in the day but already the heat was pressing down and causing the particular brand of summer warmth that was distinctly Bangalore – still and stifling, like being trapped between two sheets of glass in the sun.

‘What time did the vehicle return?' he asked.

‘It came in at about 9.00 and left at 9.40,' Santosh said, referring to his notes.

Gowda opened the file and looked at the sheet of paper. ‘In which case, let's go pay Mr Sharad Pujary, whoever he is, a visit,' he said, rising.

‘Why don't we ask him to come here?' Gajendra frowned.

‘Look at the address. RMV Extension. Those sorts of people won't come to the station without a lawyer and anticipatory bail. Apart from which a minister or at least an MP will be brought into the picture,' Gowda said quietly. ‘It's best we go there as if it's part of the investigation routine.'

Ratna rode in on her Scooty as they left. She waved at them and David braked abruptly.

‘I've got a lead about the two boys who worked at the lawyer's house,' she said, peering into the vehicle.

Gowda nodded. ‘Keep me informed,' he said.

He didn't think there would be much to it. But in a murder investigation, every lead had to be pursued. It could take them to another lead even if the first one was of little significance.

None of them spoke much as they drove towards RMV Extension. Gowda wondered how Roshan was. He was going to have to confront his son. Before he became an exemplary father, he was going to have to a be father.

Increasingly it occurred to him that in trying not to be his father, he had gone to the other extreme. Where did one draw
the line between being involved and intrusive; concerned and overbearing?

Gowda's phone rang. It was Urmila. She didn't call him often during working hours.

‘Are you all right?' he asked.

‘Yes, Borei,' she said. ‘I just needed to hear your voice for a moment. The children are back here with the portrait artist.'

‘Are you all right?' he asked again.

‘No,' she said. ‘I would like to see you. Please.'

He heard the forlorn note in her voice. ‘I am heading out to meet someone. I'll come over when I am done,' he said.

‘Thanks,' she said.

‘You take care,' he murmured softly.

Gajendra and Santosh stared ahead, pretending not to have heard Gowda's side of the conversation.

Gowda knew that they knew he had been talking to Urmila. So he didn't speak either.

It was a bungalow which, on that road of well-appointed homes, looked no different. It wasn't conspicuously new, nor was it a crumbling old house. When the jeep pulled up, the watchman came out of his sentry box.

‘Is the owner at home?' Gajendra asked.

The watchman nodded and asked, ‘Who should I say has come?'

‘What do you think we look like?' Gajendra growled. ‘Circus clowns?'

‘Open the gates,' Gowda said quietly.

The watchman opened the gates. As the jeep drove up, Gowda saw there was a rectangular lawn in front, onto which a tarmac pathway had been laid. There were a few trees close to the
perimeter of the wall. Edging the lawn was a low wall on which were potted plants. Roses, mostly, and an occasional hibiscus.

There wasn't the gazebo or barbecue pit that was de rigueur in this part of town, no overweight Labrador lolling in the grass. Quiet money, Gowda decided, looking at the car parked in the portico. A spotless black BMW.

A tall elderly man came to the door. He had a long, austere-looking face with a high forehead, and wore a cream linen shirt over beige trousers. There was that same squeaky clean aura around him, just like his car, Gowda thought, taking in the discreet Rolex, the white star of the Mont Blanc pen in his pocket and the narrow gold band on his ring finger.

‘Yes, Inspector,' he said, peering at Gowda's breast pocket. ‘What can I do for you?'

His smile was cordial, but not welcoming.

Gowda said in the most pleasant voice he could muster, ‘Good morning, Mr Pujary.'

The man lowered his chin and touched his chest with the tips of his fingers. It was the gesture of the supplicant. Ask of me what you need and I will do my best.

Gowda could smell incense from within the house. ‘This is regarding the lawyer Sanjay Rathore's murder.'

‘I heard. What a terrible thing to happen!' Pujary said softly. ‘I saw him just that evening.'

‘So you know why we are here.' Gowda's voice was even.

‘Yes. I was quite sure you would be reaching out to me sooner or later, though if you had let me know, I would have come to the station myself. Please come inside,' Pujary said, leading them into the house.

‘This is my colleague, Sub-inspector Santosh,' Gowda said, gesturing to him.

Pujary smiled, but there was no sign of deference, Gowda noticed.

The living room was filled with straight-backed wooden sofas, low tables with little artifacts on them, and a giant Nataraja in bronze.

Across them was a wall made of giant plate glass. On the other side of it was an exquisite enclosed garden. ‘You have a beautiful home,' Gowda said.

‘It's my wife. She is the one with the taste. I am just a boring businessman; a real estate wallah.'

‘Is there a dancer in your family?' Santosh asked, pointing to the dancing god.

‘No,' Pujary replied shortly. Then he said, ‘You have a sore throat. Would you like warm water or ginger tea?'

Santosh shook his head. Gowda stepped in. Any reference to his voice upset Santosh. ‘Have you been living here long?' Gowda asked, sitting down. He waved to Santosh to seat himself.

A buzzer echoed through the house. Pujary stood up. ‘If you will excuse me,' he said, going up the stairs that curved gently onto the top floor from the end of the living room. It reminded Gowda of the movie sets used to portray the rich in the Bollywood movies of the eighties.

A few minutes later, Pujary appeared at the head of the staircase with a woman cradled in his arms. He descended the stairs carefully and sat her down in one of the sofas. Then he smiled at her as if there was no one else in the room.

‘This is my wife, Gita,' he said.

Gowda and Santosh rose to their feet. She smiled at them. A quiet little smile that only emphasized the grey pallor of her skin and the black circles beneath her eyes. Once she must have been an exquisite-looking woman.

‘Yes, Inspector, you were saying …' Pujary he gestured for them to sit.

Gowda took a deep breath. ‘The CCTV at the gated community showed us that you had visited the lawyer just before he was murdered.'

‘Yes,' Pujary said and clasped his hands. ‘Dreadful business that.'

He paused for a moment. ‘My wife and I had gone to MLA Papanna's shelter for girls at about seven. We are family friends. My wife wanted to give the girls a new set of clothes each. We don't have children of our own. So my wife sees all destitute children as our children to cherish. Right, Gita?' He smiled at her. ‘And then, since we were in the neighbourhood, we went to Sanjay's house. He is a family friend too. We didn't stay long. The next morning, it was my wife who saw the news on TV9.'

The wife sat with her head bent. Gowda noticed that she hadn't spoken a word.

‘Was there anything unusual that you noticed, ma'am?' Gowda turned towards her.

‘No,' she said softly. Her gaze darted towards Pujary. ‘I'd like my chair,' she said.

Pujary rose and walked to an anteroom. He pushed out a wheelchair and moved his wife into it. She pressed a switch and steered it towards an inner room.

‘Were you business associates?' Santosh asked.

Pujary frowned. ‘Not really. I told you, we were family friends, but there was a piece of land he was interested in that I was trying to negotiate for him.'

Santosh went to the plate glass window. ‘This is a very beautiful garden,' he said.

‘Gita's garden. That's what I call it,' Pujary said. Gowda saw the softening in the man's gaze. ‘She does everything. From choosing the plants to potting to watering and pruning.'

Gowda saw the woman's pinched face in his mind. He wondered what it was like to be trapped in a wheelchair.

The whirring sound of the battery-operated chair made him turn. She came in with a tray on her lap on which were three coffee mugs and a plate of biscuits. She placed them on the table and went back to fetch the coffee jug.

None of them spoke as she poured the coffee into the mugs. ‘Please have some coffee,' she said.

Gowda and Santosh accepted the mugs and sipped slowly.

‘Have you found any leads, Inspector?' Pujary's voice cut through the silence.

‘Yes, we are working on a few leads, but …' Gowda said. He set the mug down abruptly and rose. ‘Thank you, sir and madam,' he added, turning to the woman who sat quietly. Her fingers, Gowda saw, were restless as they clasped and unclasped each other.

Pujary followed Gowda's gaze. ‘Gita,' he said. Her fingers stilled.

‘The coffee was delicious,' Gowda said into the uneasy pause. She smiled at him.

As they left, Gowda turned for one last glance at the couple. There was a combination of relief and fear on her face, and intense concentration on his.

‘Yes, Inspector,' Pujary said.

‘We will need to take a statement. We'll have someone come by,' Gowda said.

‘We can come to the station,' Pujary said, walking towards them.

‘I wouldn't want to trouble madam,' Gowda said.

‘No trouble at all, Inspector. She is very mobile thanks to the wheelchair. Just tell us when and we'll come by.'

Gowda nodded. The woman in the wheelchair had a strange expression.

‘Nice couple,' Santosh said as they went to the jeep.

‘So, what did he say?' Gajendra asked.

Santosh explained.

Gajendra frowned. ‘Either he is lying or the watchman is. According to him, they left that night at eight and were back by ten.'

‘Why would they lie?' Santosh asked.

Gowda looked ahead. A snarl of thoughts – observations, evidence, findings, conjectures and a hunch that told him the jigsaw would fall into place if he found that one last piece.