Patang

by Bhaskar Chattopadhyay

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

‘I HATE THE RAIN…I HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT. BUT THE RAIN CAN’T STOP ME. NO ONE CAN…I’LL GO OUT AND PLAY TONIGHT…I WILL KILL ONLY FOUR. NO MORE, NO LESS. JUST FOUR.’ In the midst of one of the worst monsoons in Mumbai, a man is found brutally murdered, his body posed like a kite on the tallest cell tower in the city. As one corpse after another turns up in the unlikeliest of places, each gruesomely killed and carefully arranged in a grotesque manner, the Mumbai Police realize they have more on their hands than they can deal with. Enter Chandrakant Rathod, a maverick investigator the police turn to in times of need, who plays by his own rules and lives for the thrill of the chase. Pitting his sharp instincts against the machinations of the sadistic, ruthless killer, the detective succeeds in nabbing the psychopath and putting him behind bars. Then, three months later, the killings begin again. A deadly game is afoot – one that will challenge Rathod to the utmost, for it is a game that he cannot hope to win…

Release date: April 30, 2016

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 252

Sample

1

There are some downpours that make you feel good: you’ve had a bad day, you come home from work, and just as you’ve had a nice wash, it begins to rain. You settle down in an armchair in the balcony with a cup of coffee and watch the parched neighbourhood get drenched in glee. The trees start dancing and swaying in intoxicated joy, street urchins and stray dogs jump around without a care and get soaked to the bone. The skies roar – a deep, grave, all-important rumble – and an inexplicable sense of calm slowly settles over you. You smile. You like the rain. You wish it would rain all night.

And it does.

Soon, the rain turns into a downpour, relentless, ruthless, day after day, night after night, and it suddenly doesn’t seem so poetic anymore. It becomes a menace, like it did that year in Mumbai, when the rains started out as a relief from the sweltering heat, but quickly turned into a nightmare for the poor and an irritation for the wealthy. Those living in slums and low-lying areas watched helplessly as their belongings floated around in knee-deep water inside their makeshift homes. Those who had recently moved from two-wheelers to four-wheelers barely had a chance to thank their stars for not having to take shelter under flyovers with cows and dogs, before realizing that their vehicles hadn’t moved for the better part of an hour. And those who had everything were cursing their luck at being confined to their homes. Nature turned a great leveller and dampened everyone’s spirits without any prejudice whatsoever.

In one such mood, Rasool found himself thinking about how much he hated his job. He had put in his papers as many as three times, but they simply wouldn’t let him go. Frankly, he hadn’t signed up for this! He had a proper Polytechnic diploma, after all. He didn’t enjoy taking a lift to climb a 900-foot-high tower to repair damaged network cables and circuits. Of course, this wasn’t because he had vertigo or something, oh no, but simply because the country’s largest telecom service provider, which cashed in hundreds of crores from India’s growing need to stay connected, paid him a pittance for a highly perilous job that not only required the right set of skills, but also the right set of balls. Yes, he didn’t have a strong enough will to quit, but they wouldn’t even pay for his protective clothing, the stingy bastards! They didn’t know how windy and chilly it got up there!

As the rickety lift cranked its way upwards, it rattled in the heavy winds. Rasool had covered most of his face, but sharp drops of rain continued to lash at whatever little was exposed, making him cringe and curse his luck. He drew the lapel of his jacket tighter around his neck and pulled down his cap to cover his ears. Rasool knew the Central Network Tower like the back of this hand – he had been up here at least a hundred times in the past six years. It stood tall in the middle of what was once a wasteland – a skeletal structure made of steel girders, a criss-cross of metal, broad and firm at the bottom, tapering as it went up and culminating in a self-important platform with electronic dashboards, intricate circuitry and flashing LEDs, all encased in protective cabinets. As the metal-mesh lift jolted to a stop at the very top of the tower, Rasool picked up his kit from the floor, pushed open the lift doors, stepped on to the metal gangway and was immediately hit by an invisible barrier that almost shoved him back into the lift car. He took a few moments to find his bearings. A nasty day, he thought. The wind was extra strong today. The tower was standing steady but emitting ominous cranking and creaking sounds, and he didn’t like what he heard.

Clenching his teeth and banishing all thoughts of turning around from his mind, he made his way to the central pillar and opened the junction box. A couple of minutes later, he discovered the problem: a fried circuit. It would take him at least 20 to 30 minutes to mend it. The quicker solution was to replace it, but the boss wouldn’t be happy about that. Replacement cost more than repairing, and he would inevitably get a yelling when he met his boss down below. ‘Surface Tension’, Rasool called it, and he hated it. But he was in no mood to stay up there for another half an hour either, so he pulled out the fried chip from the circuit board and placed it in his jacket’s pocket. He would have to inflict some more damage to it to justify his choice of action, but he could do that later. He replaced the chip with a brand new one from his kit, snapping it securely into place. The green light on top of the circuit board lit up with a short beep. He spoke into his walkie-talkie to report that the network was working now, and as soon as he received a confirmation, he packed up his kit. A large, menacing purple-grey cloud hovered directly above his head, and he could see scary streaks of lightning emerging from it. He rose to his feet and turned towards the gangway.

It was exactly then that he heard the bang.

What was that sound, he thought, startled. As the thunder began to fade, he heard a bang again, and then again. Trying to follow its source, Rasool began circling the tower slowly and cautiously, before he realized it had come from the eastern side. The rain continued to lash away at his face, the strong gusts of wind only making matters worse. Treading extremely carefully, he walked up to the railing of the eastern walkway and peered down. There was nothing there, just a 900-foot drop to the ground, which he couldn’t see thanks to the heavy rain. Suddenly, another loud bang echoed behind Rasool, scaring the living daylights out of him. He let go of the kit and gripped the railing tightly, steadying himself. Very slowly, he turned around and, wiping the rain away from his eyes, looked up towards the 40-foot-long antenna at the top of the tower.

Hanging upside-down from one of the extended metallic poles of the antenna was the body of a man. His legs were tied to the pole and his hands were tied behind his back while his ivory white suit shone against the dark clouds hanging above him.

Feeling giddy for the first time since he had climbed the tower six years ago, Rasool felt his legs collapse beneath him. He wiped his eyes with his gloves once again and squinted to take a closer look. Was the man alive? Could he do something to help? But as his eyes adjusted themselves and focussed, he saw that the man’s face and forehead had swollen up like an ill-shaped balloon, and that his eyeballs had burst out of their sockets.

A shiver crept up Rasool’s spine and he let out a piercing shriek, which was drowned out by a deafening clap of thunder.

2

‘Thank you, Mr Shinde, that was lovely.’ Maya extended her hand towards the minister, who looked at her coldly and grunted under his breath. He had been warned about this cunt, and he should have known better. But he had underestimated her and, as a result, for the last 30 minutes, the wretched bitch had stripped him bare on national television. He refused the handshake, threw a sharp glance towards his assistant and stepped off the platform. He had to get out of the studio, he needed some fresh air. A soft, scornful smile touched the corner of Maya’s lips as the minister walked out. When the make-up man started to pad her cheeks, she waved him aside and asked Mohit for her packet of Virginia Slims.

‘That was good,’ Mohit smiled as he lit Maya’s cigarette.

‘If only I had 10 more minutes,’ Maya muttered in between puffs. ‘Anyway, what’s next?’

Mohit started to explain the highlights of the next segment as Maya smoked, listening closely. Finally, he turned around to gesture towards a woman who had been waiting discreetly behind them. At Mohit’s signal, she hurried forward until she stood before Maya.

‘Maya, this is Ananya. She works for me in the field research team.’ Mohit introduced the young woman, who smiled politely. Maya spared her a glance and a phoney smile before looking down at the mark of her own lipstick on the cigarette butt. She liked looking at that mark whenever she smoked. It reminded her that she was in control around here. These smoke breaks were the only thing that kept her sane during the mad scurry of an 18-hour day. As the most popular news anchor on television, her life wasn’t easy, after all. An assistant of sorts in a dapper business suit swiped away furiously on her iPad and yelled out from near the camera, ‘Maya, Chief Secretary Ahuja says he can do dinner tomorrow at nine.’

Maya thought for a few seconds and yelled back, ‘Tell him I’ll be there.’

‘But he said no cameras.’

Maya sighed and said with a smirk, ‘Well, then tell him, and quote me, “I’m not your date, but I know who was on New Year’s Eve!” See if he agrees to the cameras after that.’

Everyone on set laughed as Ananya lingered on patiently. She had recently joined Mohit’s team. The money was much better than what she used to get at the rag that she had left behind. She was ambitious, and despite her ex-bosses’ attempts at brainwashing her with lofty terms such as ‘ideals’, ‘values’ and ‘responsible journalism’ she had mouthed an empty apology and left for greener pastures.

Greener, yes. But Ananya had soon realized the new job demanded more from her, and not just in terms of journalistic passion and long hours. It demanded, at times – and those times weren’t very rare – a certain killer instinct bordering on a willingness to ignore one’s conscience. But ambition was a good thing, and it had always served Ananya well. She knew that she could either adjust to this life and build a great career, or go back to her old job and languish in a damp office in a by-lane somewhere. She had consciously chosen the former. Now, as she looked at Maya with steady eyes, she knew she had made the right decision. Ananya didn’t mind the fact that Maya hadn’t even acknowledged her presence. She had earned the right to such stand-offishness. But that didn’t mean that someday Ananya herself couldn’t be where Maya was today.

‘I think you should see this,’ Mohit extended a note towards Maya. Earlier that morning, Ananya had handed it over to Mohit. One of her responsibilities was to handle the news desk’s correspondence.

‘What is it?’ Maya said, without glancing at it.

‘We’re live in two!’ A deep baritone voice rung out from the other side of the studio.

‘It’s a letter we received this morning,’ Mohit said. ‘Ananya read it and immediately brought it to my attention.’

‘Not now, Mohit!’ Maya said impatiently as she checked her phone and took the last precious puffs of her cigarette.

‘Maya…this is important.’

Maya knew that pregnant pause in Mohit’s voice all too well. He had been in her research team for almost a decade now, and she trusted his instincts. She reached out for the letter and threw Ananya a piercing look. Ananya didn’t react.

Maya started reading the letter in a casual voice:

‘“Rain, rain, rain. You would think it’s good for the city. But it isn’t. I hate the rain. I can’t play outside. I hate it, hate it, hate it. But the rain can’t stop me. No one can stop me. No one. I’ll go out and play tonight. It will be fun. It will be a lot of fun. Just like the old days. I will kill only four. No more, no less. Just four. You’ll find the first one high up in the sky. High, very high. Soar high up there and you’ll see it. Find the body, and perhaps I’ll tell you where you can find the next one.” What is this nonsense?’ she asked, her infamous frown appearing on her forehead. Everyone at the news desk was scared of that frown.

‘Sixty seconds, Maya,’ the deep baritone voice was heard again.

‘I don’t know, Maya. It seems like a…’ Mohit began.

‘What?’ Maya didn’t let him finish. ‘Do you know how many such letters we get every day? Mohit, she may be new, but I’m surprised you are wasting your time on this crap.’

Mohit rubbed his temple with his thumb and said, ‘I…I really don’t know…it seemed important to me for some reason. I…’ Before he could say anything else, his phone vibrated loudly. ‘Excuse me, I need to take this,’ he said, before moving to a relatively quiet corner of the room.

‘I can explain why it is important,’ Ananya said in a calm and determined voice, stepping closer to Maya. This was her moment to make an impression. It was now or never.

‘Mohit and I called Anurag Nanda at IBN as well as the folks at NDTV, Aaj Tak and Headlines,’ she said. ‘They have all received the same letter.’

For the first time, Maya paid a trace of attention to the young woman. She was smart and pretty in a small-town way and, right now, her jaw had hardened. Maya knew that look very well – it was a look of determination and ambition. Fourteen years ago, she had seen the same look while standing in front of a bathroom mirror in this very building, right before her first interview with the news desk as a reporter.

‘Thirty seconds! Clear the set everyone. Maya please resume your position,’ the voice boomed out once more.

Maya lingered. Years of experience had taught her that she still had time before they went live. She stared hard at the young woman, who stared right back at her without hesitation. Finally, Maya took a step towards Ananya and said in a calm, composed yet devastatingly menacing tone, ‘Serial killers don’t write letters to news channels.’

Ananya finally broke eye contact and looked down. She had an uncomfortable sinking feeling that she had messed it all up. Just then, Mohit called out – ‘Maya!’

‘Yes?’ Maya had not taken her eyes off Ananya and continued to look at her with disdain. She was the boss around here, and she wanted everyone to remember that.

As he rushed up to them, Mohit seemed at a loss for words. ‘They…umm…’

‘What is it?’ Maya said impatiently, her stern voice silencing everyone on set.

‘They…they found a body.’

‘What?’ Maya wasn’t looking at Ananya anymore.

‘Yes…on top of a telecom tower.’

Maya stared at Mohit in disbelief for some time but maintained her composure. She then threw Ananya a sharp look – the younger woman’s face was shining with excitement.

‘Ten seconds, Maya…’

As the music started rolling and the countdown began, Maya stepped over dozens of cables and proceeded towards her chair behind the desk. Just before she sat down, she called out to Mohit over her shoulder, ‘All right, make the call.’

3

‘With all the bribes and black money, the least they could do is put up an air-conditioner in here,’ a grumpy, grey-haired man in a business suit muttered as he fumbled with his stiff collar. A few people across the long table heard him, but no one commented. These were people habituated to living almost all their lives in air-conditioned rooms. Now, after waiting for over 20 minutes in a meeting room at the Mumbai Police headquarters, the heat and humidity was getting to them. They were editors and senior reporters at various news channels and newspapers, and had been summoned by the deputy commissioner of Mumbai Police, Uday Singh, with repeated disclaimers that this was not a press conference. The secretive agenda of the meeting had ensured that all invitees were present.

‘It’s been quite some time, no?’a middle-aged lady whispered to the grey-haired man seated next to her.

‘Don’t you watch movies?’ the man said in a light-hearted tone. ‘The police always arrive late.’

A few minutes later, the DCP marched in with several officers, all of whom lined up against the wall of the room as their boss stood at the head of the table and asked for the door to be shut. All eyes turned towards him. It had been less than a year since he had been transferred to Mumbai from Delhi, and crime rates in the city had already plummeted. He was known to be a no-nonsense man with a suave exterior and an iron hand. It had been heard in several quarters that the powers that be had given him free rein over the police force. It had also been heard that never in the past had Mumbai Police had such a ruthless officer running the show.

‘Thank you for coming at such short notice,’the DCP began in a crisp and confident tone. ‘I’ve invited you here today because most of you have received an anonymous letter from someone claiming that he will murder four people in various parts of the city. From the contents of the letter, it seems that the man is deranged. Let me show you the letter. Wagle, the lights.’

There was pin-drop silence in the room as the DCP’s men projected a scanned copy of the letter on a screen. DCP Singh went on, ‘I can understand that not everyone here may be familiar with this letter, even if your publication or channel has received it, because as is the usual norm with such letters, very little credence is attached to them. But this…how shall I put it…this is different.’

‘I know about this letter,’ the grumpy old man said, sounding annoyed, ‘but what makes you think it’s not a hoax?’

‘Because we found the body,’ said the DCP calmly.

‘What?’

‘Yes, renowned builder Sukhdeo Saran was found dead this morning. It seems someone tied his legs to the antenna of a tall cellphone tower and left him hanging upside down for two or three days. All the blood in his body collected in his head causing…well…his face to burst open.’

Several gasps were heard from various parts of the room. The DCP continued, ‘Now, you must understand that this is not a media announcement. I’m sure you realize and appreciate the sensitivity of the information I’m sharing with you under the assumption of strict confidentiality. Please treat this very seriously. If there’s a deranged serial killer out there, then he is dangerous. And we need to catch him before he strikes again. I have called you today, not to announce the news of the killer and his first victim, but to request you to not report on the letter or the murder. Mumbai Police requests your full cooperation in this matter.’

A heavy and uncomfortable silence fell over the room as people around the table looked at each other. Finally, a sensible-looking man, presumably in his late-fifties, sitting at the far end of the table, spoke in a calm and composed voice, ‘Mr Singh, we are all responsible journalists, and I think I can speak for all my friends here that your department will receive all the cooperation you seek from us. But I’m curious, as I’m sure my esteemed friends are as well – do you have any idea who this madman could be?’

DCP Singh briefly looked at some of the other officers in the room and then said, ‘We do know a few things about him. As I told you, from the content of the letter, it seems that he is deranged. However, he is not a fool. The fact that he carried the victim all the way up to the top of the Central Network Tower and made such a shrewd and elaborate arrangement for him to die a slow and painful death tells us that he is exceptionally intelligent. According to the preliminary reports from our profilers, it seems that the perp is a male in the age bracket of 30 to 45, and has a strong build. There were no prints found on the letter. We’re looking through our files to see if we can find a matching modus operandi, or unsolved murders, a matching handwriting, anything. Those investigations are taking place as we speak.’

‘What is that thing at the end of the letter?’ asked the same gentleman, leaning forward and squinting. ‘It looks like some sort of a symbol, doesn’t it?’

‘Some sort of a…diamond symbol,’ someone remarked.

‘Well, yes, it’s shaped like a diamond, and he seems to have used it as a signature. But to tell you the truth, we haven’t been able to fully understand what it could mean. Our experts are in the process of examining the letter.’

‘How do you know he will kill again?’ a voice piped up from the far corner of the table. All eyes now turned towards the woman who. . .