The violinist was performing Vivaldi's Concerto in A Minor accompanied by a string quartet and an organist. Geoffrey grazed her hand lightly. The artiste then went into a beautiful rendition of Bruch's Scottish Fantasy. Geoffrey took her hand in his and held it tightly. By the time the performance had moved on to Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D Major, his hand was on her thigh. They did not stay on for Bach's Chaconne from Partita in D Minor.
The fan creaked as it completed one more strenuous revolution but threw off no air. The man seated under it threw off lots. He was seated on a dirty white plastic chair that had seen better days. In front of him stood a shaky table, covered with a sheet of soiled yellow plastic. Another two even more squalid plastic chairs—supposedly for visitors—sat opposite him.
Sub-inspector Brij Lal ran his police station like his personal fiefdom. To the left of his durbar was the men's lockup, from which a foul stench emanated. To the right was the women's lockup, dark and isolated. Towards the centre of his office was a steel storage cabinet bursting with case files that had been partially eaten—and digested—by rats. On his plastic-covered desk was an ancient rotary phone that didn't work and a bottle of whisky that did. Brij Lal took another gulp from his glass and wondered how he should approach the problem.
Instructions had travelled from the home minister of Uttar Pradesh to the director-general of police. The latter had relayed them to the deputy inspector-general who, in turn, had briefed the senior superintendent of police. The chain of command had descended to the additional superintendent who had instructed the deputy superintendent who had ordered the circle officer who had commanded the senior inspector who had directed subinspector Brij Lal—at the very end of the food chain—to do whatever was necessary to get the inmate to talk. The inmate was a known associate of Ikrambhai—the mayor of Kanpur—and had run Ikram's extortion racket for him.
During the reign of Ikram's buddy, the police commissioner, no one would have dared to pick up any of Ikram's men, but now things were different. The Uttar Pradesh home minister possessed definite information that the police commissioner had purposely screwed around and allowed the political conflagration between himself and Rajjo Bhaiya to flare up. The police commissioner had been unceremoniously booted out. The home minister now wanted a conviction to screw Ikram, no matter how many balls had to be crushed in the process.
Sub-inspector Brij Lal took another swig, stretched back in his chair and farted. The food in the police canteen did not augur well for his system—the grub was full of germs. That's why he needed liberal doses of whisky to kill the bacteria in his intestines. At length, he got up, yelled at one of his constables to accompany him and sauntered over to the solitary-confinement cell where Ikram's unfortunate henchman was being hosted. The cell, a ten-by-ten room without even a light bulb, had a worm-eaten blanket thrown in one corner, upon which sat the nervous and naked inmate. In one corner stood a wall, three feet in height, separating the cell from the latrine. Its well-planned location inside an unventilated lockup provided the unmistakable stink of piss.
Brij Lal held in his hand what he called his samaaj sudharak—the Hindi phrase for ‘social reformer’. His social reformer was a two-foot-long rubber belt attached to a wooden handle. He caught hold of his prisoner's hair and hissed into his ears, ‘When we carry out our social reform programme with this, there are no fractures, no blood, no major peeling of the skin. Nothing will show up in your post mortem. But the pain will be excruciating. You will appeal to God repeatedly but He won't listen. So, my friend, are you ready to be reformed?’
The confession was written up and signed within an hour. Gangasagar's tip-off had done the trick—in addition to the samaaj sudharak.
‘Saar,’ began the young Keralite, his oily black hair slicked back carefully, ‘I am aa-nerd tomit you.’
‘You are aa-nerd tomit me?’ repeated Gangsagar, not too sure of what the young, dark, polite man had just said. He then realised that the south Indian was saying that he was honoured to meet him.
‘I studied in ko-liage yin Kerala, now looking to yearn many in job with you.’
Gangasagar did a mental translation. I studied in a college in Kerala and am now looking to earn money in a job with you.
‘Why did you leave Kerala?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘I zimbly jembed at the chance of baying here in Yindian pulley-ticks.’ I simply jumped at the chance of being here in Indian politics, translated Gangasagar to himself, as he smiled at the earnest young man.
‘What qualifications do you have?’
‘Yum Beey Yay.’
‘Ah! An MBA—good. I need someone who has management skills.’
‘I know, saar. You are very bissee man.’
‘Yes. I am busy but I still do manage fairly well on my own. I'll give you a shot—something tells me that I won't be sorry. Thousand rupees salary okay?’
‘Will it attract yingum tax?’
‘Income tax? I don't think so. It would be below the minimum threshold,’ said Gangasagar smiling at his new secretary.
‘Sir. I have this friend. He's a waiter. He's waiting to meet you.’
‘Why would I want to meet him, Menon?’ asked Gangasagar, ignoring the accent. After several months, Gangasagar now found that he was speaking almost like Menon himself.
‘Sir. I think you should meet him. He can be very valuable.’
‘Why on earth would a waiter be of any value to me?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Sir. He wants to join you.’
‘I have no need for a butler. Tell him to find someone else.’
‘No, no, sir. He doesn't want a job. He wants to sell you something.’
‘What?’
‘Information.’
Gangasagar's ears perked up.
‘Can I bring him inside? He's been waiting for an hour,’ asked Menon.
‘Sure. Let's meet him,’ said Gangasagar.
A young man—a Muslim from Kerala—was ushered in by the enthusiastic Menon. ‘Sir. This is Hameed. He's a waiter at the Golden Gate bar here in Kanpur. Go on Hameed—tell sir your story,’ urged Menon.
The sub-judicial district magistrate yawned. It had been a long day hearing bail applications of inmates. He heard another defence lawyer argue a case that he knew nothing about and shouted ‘Bail denied!’ mid-sentence. The startled lawyer looked at him quizzically wondering why he hadn't been given due hearing. He didn't realise that the magistrate had made up his mind well before the hearing ever started.
The magistrate had a nasty little secret. He was married to a loving wife and had two sons, but his wife had ceased to excite him anymore. He had tried ayurvedic remedies to help his sagging libido but nothing worked. He visited brothels thinking that a little action on the side would kickstart things. The girls had ended up laughing at him. Fed up of his miserable existence, he sauntered into a bar and ordered himself a whisky-soda on ice. The waiter not only brought him his drink but also lots of peanuts and crisps. He left the bar that night along with the waiter only to realise that his brain was wired differently. His machinery was still in working order but it needed alternative current, not the straight kind. He was suddenly happy—and gay.
The waiter had soon realised that there was a profitable opportunity awaiting exploitation—his days of waiting tables, washing dishes and pacifying disgruntled customers at the Golden Gate bar seemed to be over. He was now the secret lover of the sub-judicial magistrate.
The magistrate's nasty little secret wasn't that he was a closet homosexual. The nasty little secret was that any case heard by the magistrate could be fixed for a price. His agent was the efficient waiter who had graduated from serving peanuts to delivering sentences—Hameed.
It was definite. The telltale signs were all there. It was certain that it was that time of the month when she had come to expect pain in her lower abdomen, spasms in her uterus, dizziness in her head, and bloating everywhere else. But the symptoms hadn't arrived. She was quite definitely pregna
nt.
Terrified of the consequences, Chandini ran to Geoffrey's college and waited for him outside until his lecture ended. He saw the expression in her blue eyes and knew. Panic was written all over her face. He held her hand as they strolled into Headington Hill and allowed their feet to squelch the autumn leaves on the ground.
At length, she asked, ‘What shall we do, Geoffrey?’
The emphasis was on we.
‘I'm really not sure what you can do,’ was his reply.
The emphasis was on you.
‘Here's the five quid I owe you,’ said Victor to Geoffrey as he handed over the note.
‘Hemingfords never lose bets,’ said Geoffrey smugly, ‘but you owe me ten’.
‘Why?’
‘Five if I got the Paki into bed, another five if she got banged up,’ said Geoffrey slyly.
‘So she's pregnant?’ asked Victor.
‘Let's just say that you can now safely claim the presidency of the Oxford Union,’ said Geoffrey, accepting the second note from Victor.
The telegram in front of Gangasagar told him more than he wanted to know. It was the usual monthly report that came to him from a gentleman in England—a Mr Harvey Richardson. He conveyed regular updates regarding her grades, her progress, her debates, her friendships and her extra-curricular activities—and she'd had more than her fair share of those.
Mr Richardson was not an affluent man but a man who could get things done on occasion. He had originally been a business associate of Agrawalji and, during Gangasagar's employment with Agrawalji, had helped Gangasagar import manufactured goods from England and export commodities to England. He had been delighted when Gangasagar had offered to sponsor his daughter, Josephine Richardson, to Oxford. It was an incredibly generous gesture.
But generous gestures usually came with some strings attached. In his case—and Josephine's—it was to look out for the Indian girl at St Hilda's in Oxford.
The critical elements were the syringe and formula containing shavings of carbolic soap. Her power douche would eventually result in a pregnant girl shedding her uterine lining within forty-eight hours, after which everything would be bright and sunny once again. The house to which Josephine accompanied Chandini was a modest low-income home in which the nameless resident, a middle-aged and matronly lady, would administer the douche to terrified girls. She had performed over a hundred back-alley abortions and operated one of the most hygienic illegal clinics from her home.
Josephine had ferretted out the lady's name from another girl. Chandini, who was petrified that her father—Guptaji—would somehow get wind of her condition, and brave all odds to reach the shores of England to strangle her for bringing shame and dishonour upon the family, was relieved when Josephine took all the planning out of her hands and into her own.
The matron asked Chandini to undress and lie down on the wooden table, putting her feet in the stirrups one at a time. She positioned herself between Chandini's legs and asked the girl to open them, but try as she would, Chandini's knees refused to budge. They remained glued together almost as though a voice within her was telling her not to abort.
The Mother & Baby home at Grasmere was secluded enough to filter out unwanted attention. Moreover, it was unlike the usual ones managed by nuns where ‘errant unmarried mothers’ were sent to deliver illegitimate children who would subsequently be put up for adoption. This was, on the contrary, a private home that charged substantial fees from wealthy families who sent their pregnant daughters to its care. Grasmere was the loveliest spot that man had ever found, according to William Wordsworth, who had lived there for fourteen years of his life. Located in the centre of the charming Lake District, Grasmere was ethereal—surrounded by misty hills, unending lakes, and undulating farmlands. Harvey Richardson had instructed Josephine to take Chandini there without letting on that anyone—including Gangasagar or Harvey himself—knew of her condition.
Josephine bought a gramophone that she installed in one corner of Chandini's room. She managed to source long-playing records of Chandini's favourite music—violin concertos by Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, and Paganini. Chandini would sit by the window gazing out at the serene Grasmere surrounded by gentle walks and craggy peaks. Josephine would often go to the market while Chandini meditated to the sounds of the violin. Sometimes, when Josephine returned, she would notice that Chandini's eyes were moist and her face stained with dried tears. Sounds of the violin reminded her too much of Geoffrey. Josephine tried to cheer her up by placing a vase of fresh pink chrysanthemums on the windowsill every few days—they were Chandini's favourite flowers.
Eight weeks after moving in, Chandini was ready to deliver. She had not realised that it would be the equivalent of pushing a bowling ball through a nostril. Josephine held her hand while the matron checked her cervix for dilation. Blood and amniotic fluid were seeping out as the nurse urged her to push. Chandini pushed and blacked out as she felt a body covered in slippery gob gush out of her.
When Chandini awoke, she realised that she had been cleaned up and wheeled back into her room with the flower-patterned curtains that framed a picture postcard view of the lake. Josephine was sitting by her side, gently running her fingers through Chandini's hair. Chandini took one look at Josephine and she knew instantly.
‘I'm so sorry, honey,’ Josephine whispered, ‘the doctor says you can have others but this one was stillborn.’
Another telegram a few days later informed Gangasagar in Kanpur that the needful had been done. Gangasagar did not inform either of the fathers—Guptaji or Ikram. The telegram also informed him that the two girls had rented a cottage in the Lake District and were spending a few more weeks in the country before Chandini returned home.
‘One down, one more to go,’ thought Gangasagar as he dropped in to meet Agrawalji for an evening walk along the riverbank.
The Air-India Boeing 707-420 on the bus-stop route of London-Cairo-Geneva-Mumbai had a hundred and sixty passengers on board. Chandini was airsick as they landed turbulently in Geneva in the middle of a thunderstorm. By the time they reached Mumbai airport, she was relived to be back home.
She could never forgive Geoffrey for the games he had played with her life. She could try to forget—but she would never forgive. Neither would Gangasagar.
London's hip Esmeralda's Barn was located in Wilton Place, a fashionable street running off Knightsbridge. One of the first clubs to open after the new Gaming Act, it had the best croupiers, waiters, hostesses and chefs in town. A narrow and dimly-lit passage led to the large office that accommodated two giant antique desks, each illuminated by a green lawyers’ lamp. The two men that sat behind the desks smoking Cubans had been separated by just ten minutes. Ted had been born ten minutes before Fred. The twins had gone on to create and ruthlessly manage England's largest crime syndicate—the Payne Brothers.
Born in Hoxton, East London, to Jack Payne, a scrap gold dealer, the twins had exhibited none of their future ruthless tendencies at school. Their grandfather had led them into the world of amateur boxing, and the brothers never lost a single bout. The problem was that they were more interested in throwing punches outside the ring than inside it. They soon bought a run-down local snooker club in Bethnal Green, where they started several rackets—protection, hijacking, armed robbery, arson, betting, and prostitution. Their most high-profile acquisition had been Esmeralda's Barn.
Harvey Richardson headed over to the roulette wheel. The croupier was stacking chips while customers were placing their coloured chips on the playing field. The croupier expertly flicked the small white roulette ball between his thumb and index finger towards the rim and the ball went into frenzied orbit. Harvey placed a fiver on black. As the ball lost momentum and slowed down, it wobbled and fell gently into the still revolving wheel. ‘Double zero,’ said the croupier, ‘no winners.’
‘Fuck!’ said Harvey as he got up. The bouncer was nodding at him. The brothers were ready to see him. He was nervous but tried not showing it.
It was rumoured that the brothers had once fed a drugged man to pigs on a farm. When either Ted or Fred entered Harrods, the queues at the tills would instantly part, like the Red Sea before Moses, to let them through. In return, the brothers would ‘look after’ the community. The previous year they had even spent thousands on a Guy Fawkes fireworks extravaganza for London.
Harvey knew them because of the help they had extended to him when his house had been burgled. Josephine had been in Oxford, at St Hilda's, when the break-in occurred. They reported it to the police but nothing happened. Then a well-dressed man representing the brothers had come around to see the Richardsons. He had listened to their tale and said that he was sorry to hear about the theft and that he would do everything he could to ferret out those responsible. Within a week, Harvey's wife had all her jewellery back and almost everything else that had been taken.
What Gangasagar wanted done could not be handled by anyone else. It had to be the Payne Brothers—social workers in the real sense. Gangasagar requested Harvey to finalise the terms of engagement, including the final price.
The OUBC—the Oxford University Boat Club—was waking up to an early start as usual. The OUBC owned a boathouse on the Thames and the first few boats had already left by six in the morning. An hour later the serenity and predictable routine of the club was shattered as the junior team's boat collided with the floating corpse of a naked man. The club boat had bumped into the body at seven that morning, just past the green spit post near the jetty. The police were immediately summoned. The body was of a white male aged between twenty and twenty-five, extremely fit. His face had been beaten to a pulp, hence facial recognition was not possible.