Fatal Mistakes Read online

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘The Kandivali suicide …’ she began.

  ‘Fuck,’ he rubbed his face in exasperation. ‘Avantika, this is getting ridiculous …’

  ‘Just shut up and listen to me,’ she said, and her voice must have sounded serious, because he did. ‘The Kandivali suicide may not be a suicide. It’s … it could be a murder.’

  She paused, waiting for him to launch into a rant, but he didn’t, so she continued, dropping her voice although there was nobody around to hear them.

  ‘I know Nathan has told you and only you to cover this and I’m not meddling. But there’s reason to believe that Tushar Prasad was killed by someone and I thought you should know that.’

  ‘What reason?’ he asked, his face not betraying any emotion whatsoever.

  She told him about the mystery texts and Anu, how the date of Tushar’s death coincided with one of the dates Anu had sent her.

  ‘I know it could be a coincidence, OK? I’m going to cross-check to make sure. I just thought I should tell you so you can keep an open mind while writing your piece. That’s all. What?’ she demanded, seeing his expression.

  Uday was already shaking his head.

  ‘First of all, do you have any idea how livid Nathan will be if he finds out you’re playing Cluedo with some anonymous maniac? And even more importantly, that you’re still shoving your nose in this Kandivali story? Even after the crap that went down in his cabin the other day!’

  ‘I’m not doing anything wrong! I’m giving you the lead, see? And I’m not playing Cluedo with someone anonymous. She gave me her name!’

  ‘Avanti, are you insane?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘You don’t even know who this Anu person is,’ he said, running a hand through his hair. ‘Just because she’s sent you some texts … She could be a nut job, a conspiracy theorist—’

  ‘Or she could be a source,’ Avantika interrupted, ‘but I’m not saying take her at her word. Just … dig around a bit. See what you can find. Those friends of Tushar that Prajakta mentioned? Maybe talk to them …’

  ‘You are incorrigible,’ Uday said laughing.

  ‘Eh, I’ve been called worse,’ she grinned.

  ‘So, can I go now or do you want to write the story for me as well?’

  ‘Go, go,’ she said, then changed her mind. ‘Actually …’

  ‘Now what?’

  She hesitated for a moment. But no, Uday was her friend. If she couldn’t subject him to stuff like this, what was even the point?

  ‘So …,’ she said, ‘Dhruv told me … he told me he likes me.’

  ‘He likes you,’ Uday made a mock-impressed face. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘No, as in, he likes likes me.’

  Uday snorted.

  ‘What is he, twelve? Who talks like that?’

  ‘Shut up. He asked me out and I said yes but I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘No?’ Uday shot back. ‘Because I know what you’ll do. You’ll date him. Be his girlfriend. And then, you’ll be surprised when it doesn’t work out.’

  She punched his arm, only half in jest.

  ‘Why are you being such an asshole?’

  ‘Because it’s what you do, Avanti!’ Uday shook his head. ‘It’s what you always do.’

  ‘I don’t always—’

  ‘Yes, you do!’ he insisted. ‘You know what your problem is?’

  ‘Oh, oh, please tell me what my problem is!’

  ‘You think you have to be nice to people. You think just because someone likes you, you have to like him back. You think he’s doing you a favour if he likes you, which you have to return by going out with him.’

  ‘OK, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Really. How did you and Rishi end up together?’

  ‘What? What’s that got to do with—’

  ‘I’ll tell you? The way I remember it, you couldn’t stand him at first. You thought he was loud and irritating. You found his flirting corny. Then suddenly, one day, he tells you that the reason he behaves so weirdly around you is because he’s totally mad about you and boom! You start dating him.’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes narrowed as the memory came back to her. ‘Well, yes, but …’

  ‘Then he acts like an asshole, because oh yeah, he is an asshole and you two break up. Then he comes and tells you he’s sorry and that he’s still into you and hey, look, you guys are back together. Now, repeat this story for seven years and that’s your relationship in a nutshell. So, yeah, Avanti, I do fucking know what I’m talking about!’

  He stopped, winded. When he spoke again, his voice had gone quiet.

  ‘You think you owe it to a guy to love him back if he loves you. You don’t owe anyone a damn thing. If Dhruv likes, sorry, likes-likes you, he’s not doing you a favour. He’s doing what any man in his right mind would do after spending a little time with you.’

  She stared at him. He was looking at his feet. Okaaaaay. This conversation had become way too serious. Well, time to change that.

  ‘Any man in his right mind, huh?’ she said brightly. ‘So, obviously not you, then.’

  ‘Oh ha, ha, hilarious,’ he said. ‘I don’t count.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m sort of seeing someone already.’

  Her brow furrowed. What was this?

  ‘Oh, in your dreams?’ she asked, folding her arms across her chest, ‘Is her name Maya? Does she dance with envy8?’

  ‘No, but the ’90s called and they want their references back.’

  ‘Fine. Who is this totally not-imaginary woman then?’

  ‘Her name is Drinkle.’

  ‘No,’ she snorted. ‘At least make up a believable name.’

  ‘That is her name.’

  ‘Come on. Her name is Drinkle? No way!’

  ‘OK, I’m going back to work,’ Uday rolled his eyes. ‘Telling you was a mistake.’

  ‘Much like naming someone “Drinkle”. Where did you meet this woman, anyway?’

  ‘Dating app. Look, she’s hot and fun, all right?’ he opened an app on his phone and showed her a picture. ‘That’s her.’

  Avantika gaped at the picture of a dusky young woman, with big, black, kohl-lined eyes and short corkscrew curls that framed her face. She was leaning against an Enfield Bullet in the picture, and staring at a sunset, while looking indisputably stunning. Uday smirked a little at her deflated expression and continued.

  ‘She’s a lawyer and she’s—’

  ‘—suing her parents for naming her Drinkle?’ Avantika deadpanned.

  ‘Now who’s being an asshole?’

  ‘Hey, you started it.’

  ‘I had to, because unlike you, I’m not blind. I can see the pattern. And when it all goes up in flames, I don’t want to sit with you through yet another night of back-to-back Adele.’

  ‘That was a long time ago!’

  ‘You’re right. Things have changed now.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘It’ll be Taylor Swift this time!’

  ‘Such an asshole!’ She gave an angry giggle. ‘Go, go … go back to work. I hope that BMC guy puts you on hold for three hours!’

  ‘Oh, I hope not,’ Uday replied grinning. ‘I’ll be late for my date with Drinkle.’

  ‘Oh, are you guys going drinking because—’

  ‘Shut up.’

  DEREK ARANHA

  1989–2019

  It was a Wednesday and the traffic outside St Michael’s Church was an unholy mess. Wednesday was, after all, the day the church held its novenas9 and all through the day thousands of people, of all faiths, thronged the place with a prayer for Our Lady of Perpetual Succour.

  Painted cream and brick red, the church building was one of the oldest Portuguese buildings in the city, but most people didn’t know that. The church wasn’t a tourist attraction like the Mount Mary basilica in neighbouring Bandra, but on Wednesdays it overflowed with the devout and the desperate. They came and lit candles at the altar, heads bowed in suppl
ication or gratitude, hearts filled with hope. So popular were the novenas and so well-attended that services were held on the hour from six in the morning to half past nine at night, with the smallest of breaks for breakfast and lunch. It was wisest to attend early in the morning. From mid-morning the roads outside the church became a seething mass of visitors, hawkers, beggars and cars. By late evening, the place had standing room only.

  Yet, Munna preferred the evening shift. The crowd was thicker and the pickings were better. He was crouched on the footpath leading to the church today. He’d got there early and booked the spot. Too close to the church and you were encroaching on the territory of the candle stalls. The Mahim Causeway footpath was not even to be thought of. On Wednesdays, it was usually filled with hawkers selling all kinds of things. Cheap clothes, household items, toys, even underwear. A roadside mall of sorts, for the faithful to indulge in retail therapy after prayer. The footpath had no room to sit, leave alone walk, by the time the evening novenas were done.

  Munna fingered the cheap metal cross on the black string around his neck. He was technically a Hindu, although Amma made a face when he asked her what God he should pray to. Amma was fighting with God since Baba had gone to him. She said God didn’t care about those who didn’t have anything to put in the collection box. But she insisted he wear the cross before going to beg outside Mahim Church, because in her words, it paid to advertise.

  Munna was fine with that. He didn’t need God. He already had everything he needed to make a living. Fate had been kind that way. He’d caught a nasty polio infection when he’d been an infant and now his right leg lay shrunken and useless beside him as he sat on the path. Instant sympathy magnet. With women, especially. You could see it in their eyes, that feeling that but for the grace of God, this could’ve been the state of their own child. First came the pity, then came the cash.

  Munna scratched his neck and pulled his crutch closer. The trick was to not be a nuisance. Speak respectfully to the watchmen at the door, don’t wail or leave your crutch in such a way that someone may trip on it, and most important of all, get the expression right. Pour into it all the dejection, all the defeat people think your life must be full of and before they knew it, their hands were in their pockets, fishing out a coin or—oh, is it a tenner, never mind, kid, keep it.

  It was getting dark now. They had switched on the fluorescent lights in the church courtyard. Soon, Amma would be along to take him home to their shanty, where they’d pool in the day’s earnings and cook dinner together. He scanned the crowds for her. Sometimes, she was late, but he hoped today wouldn’t be like that. He was getting hungry and now, for some reason, the hair on the back of his neck was standing up. Spring was in the air, the weather was turning warmer every day and there was no reason why the sight of two boys on a motorcycle should affect him like that. He wondered why he was feeling like that—a dull feeling of anticipation in the pit of his stomach.

  They were just two guys, short and stocky, sitting on a motorcycle in their hoodies, with their dark-visored helmets … Ah. That was it. First of all, the pillion rider was also wearing a helmet.10 And second, most suspicious of all, neither of them had taken off their helmets. They hadn’t even cracked open the visors, which, given the balmy weather, was downright weird.

  Munna wondered if he should tell someone about it. But tell them what? Two guys are waiting on a motorbike without disturbing anyone? He was turning the problem over and over in his head, when he appeared. His favourite benefactor, his golden goose. He always came to the church on Wednesdays and never left him empty-handed. Some coins, a fruit, a piece of candy—he always had something for the boy. Munna watched him walk through the crowds, nodding at an acquaintance here, smiling at a child there. They never spoke, but Munna could tell that he was the good sort. Once, not long ago, he had heard dark whispers among the other beggars, who knew the regulars, just like he did. They had called him a … but no, Munna refused to believe it. Nice, smiling gent like that, so generous, how could he have …? No, no. It was not even to be thought of. Now as the man walked out of the temple gate, he smiled in anticipation. He was really hungry. Would the man bring a fruit today?

  Munna never got the chance to find out. Just as the man stepped towards him, the two guys on the motorbike sped forward. They pulled up next to the man with a lurch and he barely had time to react before the pillion rider pulled out a knife and slashed his throat. The driver grabbed the thin gold chain with the gold cross around the man’s neck and pulled it free. They had zoomed off into an alley before the scream left Munna’s lips.

  He watched in horror as the man clutched at his throat in bewilderment and crumpled to the floor like a discarded puppet. He grabbed his crutch and stood up. He needed to get away from here before the police arrived. They’d want eye-witnesses and Amma was always saying it wasn’t a good idea to get mixed up with police business. He hobbled away as fast as his one good leg allowed him.

  He’d seen chains being snatched before. Chain snatchers attacked in the dark of the night, on lonely streets, their targets preoccupied or defenceless women. They snatched the chain and were gone, the victim maimed perhaps, but alive. He turned around to glance one last time at the man who was no longer in any position to do charity. A watchman and a priest were hurrying towards him, passersby beginning to gather like carrion birds around a fresh carcass. He turned away, his head full of questions. The two riders had just robbed and killed a man outside a house of God. Weren’t they afraid of divine retribution? Or of being caught by a traffic cop distracted for a moment from the busy intersection under his eye? If they were after the chain, why did they need to knife him? And why had they taken it after they slit his throat open?

  Five

  It was one o’clock in the afternoon and the Mumbai Daily office was practically empty, the staff having left their desks either to have their tiffins in the cafeteria or to grab a bite at one of the many restaurants in the area offering lunch.

  Avantika had grabbed a sandwich earlier and was hoping to make the most of the peace and quiet in the office now. She cracked her knuckles as she sat down at her desk and looked at her notes. She had dates and places, all of which were apparently related to murders. Tushar Prasad was one. Now she had to find out who the others were. Once she figured out what tied them together, she could go to Nathan and get him to sign off on the story. She felt a pang of guilt, as she glanced towards his cabin. He was sitting there, thinking she had taken his advice and decided to focus on the stories assigned to her. And here she was, about to get mixed up in murder, like some random character in an Agatha Christie novel. Well, what was the alternative, she thought. Wait to be assigned more crummy seasonal features? Oh yes, she’d get a real kick from covering, say, the BMC’s annual efforts at unclogging the Mithi river. No, that shit could wait.11

  She smiled to herself and wrote down the dates chronologically on a piece of paper.

  13 02 2019 Mahim

  09 03 2019 Ghatkopar

  01 04 2019 Sion

  22 05 2019 Bandra

  10 06 2019 Kandivali

  01 08 2019 Versova

  Six murders. One each month, practically. Except there didn’t seem to be one in July. Yet. She glanced quickly at the date on her computer. Today was 15th July. But … wait. That meant the last date— 1st August—no, it didn’t make sense. Had Anu got the year wrong? The rest of the murders were all from earlier this year. Putting in just one instance from another year would break the pattern. She frowned and tapped the keyboard idly. But that would mean … that would mean the murder hadn’t happened yet. Was Anu warning her about a murder that was going to take place on 1st August? How could she know that? Who was this girl, some sort of psychic? She hoped not. Avantika didn’t believe in psychics, astrologers and their ilk. It just seemed like a stretch that a chosen few had access to special knowledge and that they used this knowledge, not to make a killing at the stock market, but to tell people they ought to wear a yellow topaz
set in gold on their third finger for prosperity. Sure man, although you know what would probably make me prosperous? Not spending all that money on gold or gemstones.

  Still, if Anu was right, someone was going to die on 1st August. That wasn’t very far away. She took a deep breath, opened her browser and typed themumbaidaily.com. She would look for news stories related to deaths on the dates. If Anu was telling a reporter that the dates were for murders, there was a good chance that they hadn’t been covered as murders. She’d look for suicides, accidents or any unexplained deaths. She ruled out natural deaths on the basis that even if they had been murders, if they had been declared as natural deaths, there was no way of proving otherwise, so long after the death. And if she didn’t find what she was looking for on the Mumbai Daily website, there were always the others. The Times. The Express. The Hindustan Times. Thank you, internet, she thought. And thank you Anu, for including a place with each date. Otherwise, it would be like hunting for a morbid needle in a horrendous haystack the size of a city.

  About two hours later, by the process of elimination, she had found names to add next to the dates and places. She placed a series of question marks next to the last date and scanned the list.

  13 02 2019 Mahim Dr Derek Aranha

  09 03 2019 Ghatkopar Hasan Aziz

  01 04 2019 Sion Ashok Kadam

  22 05 2019 Bandra Viral Patel

  10 06 2019 Kandivali Tushar Prasad

  01 08 2019 Versova Yash Ready? Reddy???

  Dr Aranha had been wounded fatally in a chain-snatching incident. The chain-snatchers hadn’t been caught, and no bike with a number plate matching eyewitness reports had been found. Hasan Aziz had been found dead on the railway tracks in the dark hours of dawn. There had been no witnesses but investigations were on. Viral Patel had been pushed in front of the Flying Ranee by a mentally disturbed woman on Bandra station. The woman had kept screaming a litany of profanities after being arrested and had eventually been taken to J. J. Hospital, where doctors had run a series of tests on her for a few weeks, before declaring her mentally unfit. The court had pardoned her on grounds of insanity. Ashok Kadam had died of anaphylactic shock after eating food from a dabba service, which hadn’t been informed of his severe peanut allergy by his inconsolable wife. The court had found the caterer guilty of criminal negligence and had ordered the company to pay Kadam’s widow compensation. And then there was Tushar Prasad, who had jumped out of the window of his living room after sending his parents a text that simply said, ‘I’m sorry for everything. Please forgive me.’ The building watchman had been taken for questioning, but since the window Tushar had jumped out of faced the back of the building, the man hadn’t seen anything.