Sacred Games (79 page)

‘Bas, bas, enough,' Sartaj said to Kamble. For Zoya, he had his gentle, understanding face. ‘Madam, I know you are afraid. And you want to keep your life private. That is your right. But he's right, we know too much about your link to this Gaitonde for you to hide anything from us. We have records that prove he paid for your travel. We have copies of your old passport, under the name Jamila Mirza. We have copies of plane tickets.'

Kamble pulled a sheaf of copies out of a brown envelope and waved them at her. ‘We know about Singapore,' he said. ‘Here.'

She took the papers. She was very strong, she had – under that sinuous exterior – an inflexible will. Sartaj could feel it, he knew the imperious stride of the jungli princess was also Zoya's. But all her control over herself, all her skill at acting, couldn't keep the flare of anger and fear from her eyes. Something had indeed happened in Singapore. Kamble had scored a hit. This was the time for sympathy. ‘Madam, believe me, we need nothing from you except some information. There is no case against you, no accusations. Please sit.' She stood, quite still. ‘Nobody in our department apart from this officer here and me knows anything about your connection to Gaitonde. We will not reveal anything to anyone. We just need you to tell us about him, anything you know about Gaitonde's
friends and connections and business. We have no need to know anything about you.'

‘Unless you give us trouble,' Kamble said.

‘We are under pressure to find information on Gaitonde's activities,' Sartaj said. ‘If we can't come up with anything, we will be forced to tell our superiors of your links to him. That may become very embarrassing for you.' He took a deep breath. ‘There is a videotape, madam.'

‘A videotape?' she said. Her voice was very low.

‘Gaitonde recorded his activities.' Sartaj could feel Kamble's stare on the side of his neck, and he resolutely kept his attention on Zoya. ‘There is a videotape of you. With him. Doing things.'

She sat, sank down on the chair, without control and without grace. Her knees had twisted rubber-like under her suddenly, and she sat. She'd collapsed, they had her. Sartaj swallowed a taste like old glue in his mouth, and sat himself down, on the very edge of the couch, next to Kamble. Zoya had her eyes down, her ankles twisted. Sartaj leaned forward. ‘It is a very explicit tape. It appears that you were not aware that you were being recorded, that it was taken with a hidden camera. It shows everything, just everything.'

Now she didn't hide her fury. ‘Where is the tape?' she said. ‘I'll pay you for it. How much do you want?' Her contempt was not only for Ganesh Gaitonde the treacherous boyfriend, but also for these two policemen who threatened the life she had won for herself.

‘You know already we don't want money,' Sartaj said. ‘Just information.'

‘Then you'll give me the tape? And everything else?'

‘Yes. Everything, madam. We have no panga with you. We wish you peace and lots of films. We are fans.'

Zoya wasn't much comforted by his fervour. She glared, and gathered up her limbs from her disarray, and became a film star again. ‘Not here,' she said. ‘My costume designer will be here in a minute.'

‘Yes, madam. Too many people here.' Sartaj stood up. ‘Tell us where to meet you.'

‘My shift finishes at eleven-thirty. Come at twelve.' She gave them an address, a mobile number, and then dismissed them. ‘Okay,' she said, ‘now please go.' She shut the door behind them firmly.

‘Randi,' Kamble said. ‘Bitch. We should get some money out of her.'

Sartaj stretched. Their angle to the palace revealed the struts and the scaffolding under the walls. The spiky structure was weirdly beautiful in
the half-light, like some sort of giant artificial cactus-like plant that had rooted itself on this hillside. ‘Don't be greedy. Doing this is dangerous as it is. We should get out of here.'

Vivek was nowhere to be seen, and so they made their way through the set, past the inexplicable crowds of idle workers. Kamble waited until they were out by the motorcycles. ‘Is it going to get more dangerous,' he said, ‘when she finds out there's no video?'

‘No,' Sartaj said. ‘Already she's compromised herself, by admitting that a video may exist.'

‘True. That was a good idea.' Kamble strapped on his green helmet. ‘So after this is all over, when there's no more danger…Can we get some money out of her then?'

Sartaj kicked at his starter, ran up the engine and let it settle. ‘This one survived Ganesh Gaitonde, my friend. You know a lot of women, but I'm older than you. Listen to me. If this one feels too badly attacked, she will attack back. Get your money somewhere else.'

‘All right, all right, you be friends with her. You be kind to her.' Kamble's grin was very sly. ‘I won't get money. Maybe you can get something else from her. I'll see you at the station.'

He rattled away, but not without turning his head to give Sartaj one parting guffaw. Sartaj tilted out into the road and followed. It was no use protesting about the accusation, Zoya was beautiful and stunningly so. And Sartaj had felt her beauty, but in a distinctly impersonal way. There had been no hope in his pleasure, and no pain, none of those cutting stabs of desire. But he had been struck by her resilience, her strength, how she had dealt with the problem of two hostile policemen, with this unexpected disaster that threatened her career, her possessions, her life. She had coped. This was impressive, very much so. Zoya Mirza was a problem-solver, she saw a difficulty, she bent under it for a moment and then she looked for solutions. It was best to be very careful around such self-possession, especially when you were yourself the problem.

Sartaj rode towards the highway. Kamble had already vanished from sight, among the trucks and the swarms of evening auto-rickshaws. Maybe he had a girl waiting for him, two girls. He was a great devotee of beauty, as Sartaj had once been. When Zoya Mirza no longer intoxicates you into lust, Sartaj thought, you are really getting old. You old man. You old, tired man. But he didn't feel sad, just strangely relieved. Time had visited him with its depredations, and worn him down, but he liked the
feeling of being dilapidated. It was restful. He eased on to the highway, and rode into the twilight, humming
Vahan kaun hai tera, musafir, jayega kahan?

 

At the station, Sartaj worked steadily on court paperwork and calls and reports. Just after eleven Kamala Pandey called. She had had no new phone calls from the blackmailers, but wanted to know about Sartaj's progress.

‘We are working on it, madam,' Sartaj told her. ‘Don't worry.'

‘But what are you doing?' she said.

‘We are following leads. We are pursuing some lines of enquiry. We are talking to our informants.' Sartaj said this quite smoothly, as he filled out a form on a burglary case. It was the standard line, and he had reeled it out a thousand and one times before. But Kamala Pandey wasn't quite satisfied with it. There was a murmur in the background, and then she came back at Sartaj, petulant now.

‘But who? Did you have any breakthroughs?'

Breakthroughs. Sartaj sat back. ‘Who are you talking to?'

‘Where?'

‘You are talking to somebody, madam. Who is it? You shouldn't be telling people about the case.'

‘I am not telling anyone about the case. I am at a restaurant with friends, and one of them came out and asked me something. She's gone now. So you can tell me your details.'

‘Madam, I can't reveal the specifics of an ongoing investigation,' Sartaj said, quite sharply. ‘Please be assured that we are working very hard. In fact I am working on your case right now.' That wasn't exactly true, but he had put in some good hours on the matter, and he was tired, and about to get very angry.

There was again the murmur over the receiver, but Kamala didn't want to push any more. ‘Sorry,' she said, ‘I am just nervous.'

‘No reason to be nervous,' Sartaj said. ‘I will contact you as soon as I know something. And, madam, I need a photograph of you, to show to witnesses who might have seen the exchange of money. Don't worry, I will be completely discreet. I won't tell anyone who you are. Just have it delivered to me at my home address by courier. Today if possible, tomorrow latest.' She was reluctant, but Sartaj was very firm. He gave her his address, hung up and returned to his form.

Kamble was distinctly hostile when Sartaj told him about Kamala
Pandey's call. They had met at twelve-thirty, as planned, across the road from Zoya Mirza's building in Lokhandwalla. Kamble was drinking a quick beer before they went up to Zoya's apartment. He had been working on two cases since they parted and was quite tired and peevish. He had insisted that he needed a bottle of beer before he went back to work. So they were sitting on a low boundary wall across the road from Zoya's gate, just two friends relaxing in the darkness. ‘So the fancy kutiya is roaming around all over town, going to restaurants and bars,' Kamble said of Kamala. ‘No doubt she will find another mashooq soon. They are all like that, these rich fast ones, they give it around for free. Once they start giving, you know, they can't stop.'

‘I think she had love for this Umesh.'

‘Then why stay with this gaandu husband? Just for his flat and his money?'

‘She was trying to break off from Umesh.'

Kamble took a long, gurgling gulp. ‘If she loves him, then why?'

‘You don't always like who you fall in love with.'

‘That is true, yes.' Kamble's broad cheekbones were splashed with moonlight and shadow from the palms they were sitting under. ‘There was this girl, once or twice I thought she would die at my hands.'

‘One of the dancer girls?'

‘Yes. She was a dancer, that one originally from Rae Bareli. She nearly ruined me, that one. I was like a mad fool. And I tell you, she looked as innocent as some goddess. Cheeks like fresh malai.'

‘So you didn't kill her?'

‘No, I just let her go. And that after she had spent every last rupee I earned, for seven months. She and her bhenchod family. They were very good at taking my money. Some of these girls get it in their blood from birth, this talent for making money. Like this Zoya. I checked it out, flats on her floor cost one crore eighty lakhs.'

‘Some of that must be Gaitonde's money.'

‘Of course. But still. One-eight. And she's been in films for what, three, four years? These people are amazing.'

‘Which people? Actors?'

‘Arre, no, boss. Muslims. The Mughal empire is gone, Pakistan was made for them, but they live like kings here.'

‘Kamble, saala, have you been to Bengali Bura recently? Or Behrampada? Those poor gaandus don't live in palaces.'

‘They live here, na? And they take more land every day, and their pop
ulation keeps growing. And in films, think about how many Khans there are, all the top heroes.'

‘Because these Khans look good? And are good actors?'

‘Yes, baba, they're good-looking. This Zoya is a real chabbis.'

‘And your Muslim girlfriend?'

‘She was a phatakdi, yes. I'm not saying that they are not handsome as individuals, or that they can't be good people. I know Majid Khan is a friend of yours. He's a good man. But, you understand, as a people…'

‘What?'

‘They won't live in peace with anyone. They are too aggressive, too dangerous. For a sardar, you're too soft on them.'

Sartaj was tired. It was late, and he had been up since six, and he had heard these arguments all his life. ‘I think you are crazy, and quite aggressive yourself,' he said, getting to his feet. ‘And I am soft on everyone.'

Kamble was happy to agree. ‘Too soft for a policeman.' He tilted the bottle far back to his mouth, then tossed it into the bushes. ‘Now I'm fit for Zoya.'

They went across the road and through the immense black-and-gold gates of Havenhill. The watchmen were expecting them, and waved them directly through. The building was an enormous pastel-pink block, looming thirty-odd stories above the surrounding bungalows. Havenhill was newly built, newer even than the bungalows, which had been thrust out into the swamp just ten years ago. It was a fit abode for a towering film star, this Havenhill with its cavernous, Italian-marble lobby and its brushed-steel lifts. Sartaj and Kamble zoomed up in a miraculous whisper of up-to-date technology, all the way to the top, and as they got off an accented female voice told them it was the thirty-sixth floor. Zoya's door was simple, just plain black wood behind a black grill, but inside, the drawing room was vast. Two enormous chandeliers hung over two separate seating areas, and a long, glossy dining table was laden with white flowers. The old man who had let them in – Sartaj couldn't tell if he was Zoya's father or uncle or an aged retainer – seated them on a white couch and vanished. The gauzy curtains were white. Zoya's favoured colour scheme, it seemed, was white.

She swept in barefoot, but not at all a jungli princess now. She was wearing a loose, sheer white top and flowing white pants. Her hair was drawn back severely from a face completely devoid of make-up. And still she was grand, there was no other word for it. Sartaj felt Kamble tense beside him. Whatever your thoughts were about some collective notion of
a people, there was no escaping the overpowering enchantments of this individual, especially if you were young and cocky and muscle-bound.

‘Come,' she said. She led them into another white room, this one with two walls of glass windows that went from ceiling to floor. Sartaj sat in an inexplicably comfortable steel chair and felt that he was floating far above the sparkling lights and far sea. Kamble was very quiet, very subdued. Sartaj thought, yes, saala, this is how the rich live. A servant, a young woman this time, brought in a tray with glasses of water, and then shut the door. Zoya sat, perfectly poised and perfectly lit, her back to the night. ‘I think,' she said, ‘that there is no videotape.'