Doing wrong, p.13
Doing Wrong, page 13
“But when? When?”
“Hell, I don’t know. When that Mrs. What-you-call-her, one you talked about … Cantonment Station. When she was murdered. That’s when.”
“How are you knowing? I am not at all believing.”
He gave the boy’s arm a small upwards jerk.
A squeak of pain.
Not the pleasantest thing to be doing. But if he was learning the truth, even in part, about the murder of a person like Mrs. Shoba Popatkar, something altogether right to do.
“Guy told me, is all.”
“What guy? I am less and less believing.”
“No, no. God’s truth. Let me go.”
“What guy it is?”
“The goop Verma’s grandson or something. Guy called Vikki Verma.”
“Oh, yes? And why should he be telling you such things?”
“Feed him, don’t I? He’s loaded. Takes all the sugar I can get. He just let it out, is all.”
Ghote eased himself up a little. This needed thinking about. Was it likely? At least it was so unlikely as an invented story it must to some extent be true. So was H. K. Verma really—
But he had not been concentrating hard enough on the skeleton-thin body beneath him.
With a sudden sliding wrench the boy slipped sideways, at the same time tugging his puny wrist free. In an instant he was rolling away down the steps towards the line of burning pyres.
Ghote scrambled up, cursing, and set off, bounding down the crumbling steps. The boy had managed to get to his feet in his turn. But he was close enough to him still.
It was the crumbling steps that defeated him. He felt his ankle twisting under him. And fell with bone-jarring heaviness.
He rolled down a step or two and ended on his back, looking up at the moon-radiant sky. Knowing that now he had lost his man forever.
THIRTEEN
No. Each time he dashed Ganga jal from his cupped hands onto his face, standing there with the water swirling round his waist, he felt a stinging inside. As if it was acid he was splashing against his cheeks. No, from the moment he had put one foot into the sacred river it had seemed as if he was being delivered a mighty rebuke. You have done wrong.
At least he had not added another death to the death that had come from his own throat-gripping hands. At least he had not hired those wrestlers not so many hours ago at the Nag Kuan pit. In the end, thank Bhagwan, he had not been able to bring himself to do it. He had turned away. Walked off, striding hard in the heat of the sun. Putting distance between himself and those muscular, oiled bodies ready to do whatever he was willing to pay for. At least he had had that much of respect for the man he had believed himself to be.
But his other crime stood there still. A mountain ready to fall. No amount of prayers facing the sun as it rose over the Sandbank made any difference.
Arise! Life’s breath has returned.
Darkness has fled, light comes!
Dawn has opened the path for our lord, the Sun,
Now our days will stretch out before us.
Words only. Meaningless words. All that this ritual had ever meant to him had been wiped away like mist from a mirror. All of all the rituals’ echoing of the order of everything, of the way the world should be. Gone. Stretching out in front now nothing but a desert of despair.
And just yesterday he had been filled with resolution to defy everyone, everything. He had been as determined even first thing today. He had jumped up from his bed, seized his fresh clothes, marched down to the ghat. Defying anyone to say all was not as usual with his life. The life of Shri H. K. Verma, party leader. He had been sure beyond the least trickle of doubt this was the right thing to do. If he was being hunted, he would do whatever was necessary to outwit the hunters. It was his right to do it. His right for himself.
And then, at the moment his foot had felt the touch of the water, that familiar cool embrace he had daily delighted in, all that resolution had melted away. No, not even melted. It had suddenly not been there. A blank screen on the TV
How could I have lived, for even that short time between when Jagmohanji made his announcement and now, feeling I was entitled to defend myself in any way I could? As if that … that business … no, that killing. As if that killing had not even happened.
But it has happened. It has. No, worse. It is not that it has happened, as if some machine only jerked into accidental action. It is that I myself with my own hands—say it, say it—killed Mrs. Shoba Popatkar. These hands strangled her. My own hands.
Ghote was woken before dawn after a bare two hours of restless, ankle-throbbing sleep. The Hotel Relax room-boys felt it only proper to knock at the door of every sunrise-dipping guest with as much noise as possible.
Lying there cursing them, he realised he was still as confused as when he had limped away from the Manikarnika Ghat after losing Rick. Had the boy been telling him the truth at all? A drugs-ruled creature like that, was he capable even of knowing truth from fantasy?
Yet what he had said did make some sort of sense. H. K. Verma could have been flown to Bombay on the evening of Mrs. Popatkar’s death and then been back in time for his absence not to have been noted. If his grandson—what was he called? Vikki—was actually a pilot … If H. K. Verma even had a grandson Vikki, presumably Vikram.
But why would a respected party leader like H. K. Verma want to murder Mrs. Popatkar? Yet on both occasions he had spoken with him the man had been plainly uneasy. All right, the questions he had put had been effectively enough brushed aside. But that had been when there had been no more to go on than the American junky’s mere mention of his name.
So go and see him yet a third time? But what to ask? “Do you have a grandson known by the name of Vikki? Did you air-dash to Bombay on the night Mrs. Shoba Popatkar was killed?” Ridiculous. Impossible.
No, first I must at least find out if this Vikki Verma is existing. So, before anything else, Inspector Mishra. Mishra will know everything about a prominent Banarasi like H. K. Verma.
If I hurry I may get to him before he sets out to have his day of masti at the Sandbank. Autorickshaw time, if not taxi itself.
Why? Why? Why had he done it? Oh, yes, she had had to be made to keep silent. And, true, there in that flat he had soon enough seen no amount of pleading and persuading was going to make her hold her tongue. But, when she had made it so clear that for her the truth, whatever it was, must always be brought to the light, then … then he should have bowed his head and accepted.
That would have been right conduct.
He knew it now. He had deep down, hidden away somewhere, known it from the very moment that frail body had become a lifeless nothing in his hands.
He felt the heat of the sun drying the water on his chest.
So why had he not let her go blurting out the truth? Yes, the chance to be Minister for Social Upliftment would have vanished in that instant. But he would have kept his belief in the rightness of his life. Why, why, oh, why?
He picked up his fresh kurta, dazzlingly white in the early rays of the sun, slipped it over his head.
It was Mishra’s little granddaughter, Rukmini, who blurted out the truth, for all that she had looked so shy, peeping round her mother’s sari.
“Dada is doing his mal. You are not allowed to see.”
Her mother had blushed, broken into a fit of giggles.
“Oh, excuse me. Why must children always come out with such things?”
And at that moment Mishra himself appeared.
“Inspector Ghote, good morning, good morning. I am sorry. I should have answered when you were ringing at the door. But I was under the shower itself.”
Ghote suppressed half a dozen answers that came to mind.
“I was hoping you had not left already for the Sandbank,” he said.
“Well, I was going soon. But if you are wanting to take recourse to my help …”
“It is just only a few things I am needing to know.”
“We could go to the Sandbank together? I am almost ready. I could tell you what you are wanting, and you could fully sample our Banarasi life. Before, you were hardly there.”
“No, no. If you are able to tell me what I am wanting to know, I would have to go and see—”
Mother and daughter were still there. Little Rukmini with ears sharp as a squirrel’s.
“I would have to go at once to see a certain person, if indeed he is existing.”
Krishnakanta himself came into the office downstairs. H. K. Verma thought immediately that he had not seen his son in the house for years.
Then a snicker of cold ran through him.
Something must be wrong. Krishnakanta must have heard something. From Delhi perhaps. His contactmen. But why should the first whispers about the imminent arrest of one H. K. Verma be the gossip of distant Delhi? Impossible. But then … Well, what could Krishnakanta be wanting?
He pushed himself up from his chair, totally forgetting he had been listening to the chairman of the panchayat at a village near the old family home. Some long, complicated tale about the landlord and the ownership of some fields.
“Let’s go up.”
Krishnakanta followed him. He felt as if each loud step on the stone stairs behind him—Why does he have to be suited and booted always? What is wrong with good Indian kurtas, chappals?—was a separate stroke on the bell at a temple of Yama, God of Death.
Krishnakanta turned as soon as he had come in and shut the door firmly.
“No one can hear outside?” he asked.
“You know that. You know the servants do not hear what is said inside this room. This was your home for twenty years.”
He had not meant to let anger spill from his voice. But he was too caught up with anxiety.
“All right, all right. But what I have got to say must be kept secret-secret.”
So his worst fears were coming true.
“Then say it. Speak.”
“It is Vikki.”
Vikram. Then after all nothing to worry?
“The boy is in some troubles? You should not spoil him the way you have. Giving so much. Car. Lessons in flying. Flying, it is ridic—”
Then he remembered.
“But what is the problem? I can help?”
“Oh, yes. You can very much help, Pitaji. A man as much respected as yourself.”
Not so encouraging. If Krishnakanta is talking about my status, they are going to call on me to use influence. To get something done. Something that should not be done.
“Listen, my boy, I have told before. You cannot always be coming to me when you have put yourself in some awkward position. It is up to you always not to go too far.”
“Yes, Pitaji. You have said. But I am your son only. And Vikki is your grandson. The last having the family name.”
“Well, well. So what has he done now?”
“Oh, not too much. But there are problems.”
“Tell me.”
“The other day in his car he was running down some student, a girl. Hospital matter. I think I was mentioning before. Well, it should all have been okay. Five hundred, a thousand chips to the parents, and no more heard of matter. But the father is being difficult. He is a schoolmaster, not altogether one of the poors, and he has some bee in bonnet that if his daughter is knocked down driver should be prosecuted.”
“Quite right. There are too many such hooligans and hoodlums driving cars.”
“Even if the hooligan is your grandson?”
He drew himself up.
“Yes. Justice must be done. Whether it is Vikram or some other young man with more of money than sense. He has done wrong: he should take his medicine.”
“And you, Pitaji. What if you have done wrong?”
“What … what is this?”
“I have been talking with Vikki. He was telling me he was flying you to Bombay one night.”
So it is known … But no, all may not be lost yet.
“Well, what of that? I had some business there. Confidential. With Jagmohan Nagpal.”
“With Jagmohanji, when he was seeing you itself here two-three days later? No, Pitaji, I am able to put two and two together, even if that know-nothing Vikki was not. He flew you to Bombay in secret the night Mrs. Shoba Popatkar was murdered.”
He felt suddenly hollow. As if whatever was inside his body—stomach, lungs, everything—had in an instant been replaced with air. Anything could blow him away, a scrap of dirty paper caught up in the wind before the monsoons.
Krishnakanta knows. He knows something. And, if Krishnakanta, who else?
“What … What it is you are saying?”
“Altogether simple, Pitaji. Vikki is knowing now, when I have explained, why you must have needed to get to that woman Shoba Popatkar before she was opening her mouth. Hundred percent truth-teller. It is all over Delhi she succeeded to read K.K.’s Recollections. Something there you would not at all like to become public, yes?”
He knows almost all. What will he do? Will he … No, he cannot.
“But, of course, Pitaji, if any police inquiries are made Vikki would not let you down. How could he? You are his grandfather.”
Then what … What does Krishnakanta want? He is wanting something. It is there in every inch of his face.
“And Vikki is your grandson also. He is hoping … He is knowing-knowing you would not let him down.”
“What must I do?”
No point in pretending. Vikki is holding a gun to my head. Whatever Krishnakanta—my own son, my own son—wants to be done for Vikki, I will have to do it.
“Not too much of difficulty. You see, we are needing to show Vikki is too young to be prosecuted in a full court. Sixteen years of age only. Then it is a juvenile offence matter. No possibility to go to jail. Fine only. No problem to pay.”
“But … but … The boy is eighteen, nineteen even.”
“Yes, Pitaji, we are all knowing that. But what we must have is signed and sealed statement he is sixteen itself.”
“But I cannot … Will anyone believe it?”
“Oh, yes, when it is coming from someone as much respected as H. K. Verma. It has been done before, you know. People are willing to turn one blind eye without daring to investigate further when an influential man is stating. And I have made somewhat more sure. I have told the Gandiva you will shortly be taken into Government.”
“But … but …”
“Oh, yes, Pitaji, I am knowing damn well it is not so. Half Delhi knows also. But for some days Banarasis will believe you are truly a man of influence. Soon to be a Minister. That is all we are needing. Write that statement. We will produce it. All will be okay.”
H. K. Verma sighed, deep as the Serpent Well itself.
FOURTEEN
So, Ghote thought, Rick was right to this extent at least. H. K. Verma has a grandson, by the name of Vikram, known as Vikki, aged eighteen-nineteen. And this Vikki is a flying club member. He could have flown H. K. Verma to Bombay and assisted him even to kill Mrs. Popatkar. After all, the boy has been in troubles many times already. Court case just coming also. Some girl badly injured by his car.
All kudos to Mishra for knowing so much about holy Banares and its foremost citizens.
His autorickshaw came to a halt.
“You are here, sahib.”
Yes, there on the gatepost was a painted board: MR. K. P. VERMA—K. P. VERMA (PRIVATE) LTD.
He paid the man, took a long look at the house.
Mr. K. P. Verma, very well off. Big place. Surrounding wall freshly whitewashed. Garden inside altogether well looked after. Two-car garage at the side, doors open, one car gone, one car left. Open top, heavy dent in wing.
So Mr. K. P Verma at office at this time of morning, and the owner of the imported sports car at home. Young Vikki Verma, accessory to murder perhaps.
Go altogether carefully.
He pushed open the close-railed iron gate, went up to the wide door of the house, rang at the bell beside it.
A servant.
“I am wishing to see Mr. Vikram Verma.”
“Sahib, too soon.”
“Too soon? Too soon? What is this?”
“Chota sahib still sleeping, sahib.”
“Sleeping? At this hour? Wake him now only. It is police. Inspector Ghote, Bombay C.I.D.”
The servant scuttled away.
Ghote sat himself on an ornate bench in the hallway. He looked round.
Wide wood staircase, shining with polish. On the walls brightly decorated ceremonial masks made by tribals. Well-watered palms growing lushly in big brass pots. Glittering chandelier, red and white glass. Directly behind, when he twisted round to look, a very large framed photo. Of some posh-looking new factory.
Time passed.
Was the boy never coming? Or … or has he gone by some back way?
Well, all right. If he is truly absconding, it will make plain his guilt. Then I can call for the full help of the Senior Superintendent. Even Central Bureau of Investigation can be brought in from Delhi itself. The fellow will be found quickly enough.
The sound of steps from above.
Coming down the stairs a young man wearing blue jeans, very clean-looking, a shirt bright with red stripes gold-edged, heavy gold chain at its open neck. Air of idleness, betrayed as forced by the rigid way he holds his head. Beside him a dog, a German shepherd, restrained by a hand loosely gripping its collar, looking at this intruder with no air of idleness whatsoever.
“You must be the chap.”
Obliged to look up to the boy on the stairs, he gave him a hard-faced glare.
“If you are meaning I am Inspector Ghote from Crime Branch in Bombay, then yes, I am. And you are Mr. Vikram Verma?”
“Yes. Well, yes.”
Already a little subdued. Fine.
“So, what can I do for you, Inspector?” Then a little perking up. “I haven’t much time. Must be on my way.”
“First of all, you can come down so that I can see.”
“Oh. Oh, very well, Though perhaps I should warn you, though, Demon here is not always friendly.”
Clattering descent of the last few stairs. Demon padding after. Defiant stand at their foot by man and dog. Murderer and attacker?
