Rotimi Ogunjobi - The Crooked Bullet

A Frank Wire Mystery

By

ROTIMI OGUNJOBI

© 2021 Rotimi Ogunjobi

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

AM Book Publishing Limited

www.ambookpublishing.com

THE CROOKED BULLET THE CROOKED BULLET A Frank Wire Mystery By ROTIMI OGUNJOBI

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

EPILOGUE

Upton Park, London.

Raj Desai sat alone in the back office of his jewelry shop. It was Saturday night, and the staff and security had left; but like every other night, Raj locked up by himself – he was a very careful man.

He opened the front door to peek up and down the street, Bhatti’s Jewellery was on Green Street and about a hundred yards away from the tube station. All around, the street this night teemed with African and Asian immigrants, many of whom perpetually looked defeated.

Not a lot different from what he and his wife must have looked like when they had come to live here more than two decades ago, he knew. The only appreciable commercial traffic at this time was from the Tesco supermarket. It wasn’t football day, else the pubs around would have been rowdy with drunken revelers from the stadium down the road where Westham FC played their home matches. Here on these streets, spotted with phlegm and perpetually smelling of disinfectant, he and his late wife had nevertheless found good fortune

Raj shut the door and turned the key. He failed, however, to see Kalyan Shetty his son-in-law to be, running down from the train station. Kalyan knocked eagerly on the door just as Raj turned away. He is dressed in a dark suit; obviously coming from work. Raj again opened the door to let him in and then drew down the electric-operated front window security grille.

“Good evening Papa. How are you today?” Kalyan asked.

“Very well thank you, my son. You are coming from work?” Raj Desai replied. They both spoke in Hindi,

“Yes, Papa. Rupinder says to meet her at home, but it is too early since she does not arrive from work at the hospital for another two hours. So I thought to come to have a chat with you, and then maybe go home along with you “, Kalyan said

“That is fine. She works long hours at the hospital sometimes. Too long for a woman even if a doctor.” Raj regretted.

They both entered Raj’s office at the back of the shop floor. Conspicuous on a wall of the cramped office were three portraits. One was of his deceased wife Sangita, her scowl still intimidating even in the picture. The second was of his only daughter Rupinder in her graduation attire from medical school. The third portrait was of Raj, Sangita, and Rupinder, taken twenty-two years back in Mumbai, and when Rupinder was just about three years old.

Raj looked up and pointed to the picture of Rupinder.

“She takes after her mother. Unfortunately, Sangita died when Rupinder was still a little child and left us alone.” he seemed to apologize.

“I am always sorry to hear that Papa. You have done quite well, however.” Kalyan told him.

“Oh no, she has done quite well. All that you see here in this shop means nothing to me. This shop, Bhatti’s Jewellery belonged to Sangita, and she made it a success by hard work. Only she taught me enough to be able to make it prosper still. This shop we bought the shop from her uncle Shami “Bhatti” Bhatnagar. He was widowed, quite fed up with his bad arthritis, and going back home to New Delhi. We came here poor, she determined to make us rich, and rich we became. Bhatti’s belongs to Sangita, my son, Rupinder is my only success. You will take care of Rupinder for me when you eventually get married will you?” Raj asked

“I promise Papa; I promise.” Kalyan patted his hand.

Raj opened a solid wood locker and brought out a black box, expensively decorated with black velvet and gold trimmings and about the size of a medium-size pizza box. Inside, the box was lined with purple satin. It contained a gold pendant attached to a gold chain. The pendant has the shape of a bent bullet.

“Look at this; what do you think?” Raj eagerly asked.

“It is beautiful Papa, and it looks very valuable,” Kalyan confessed.

“Yes, it is valuable. It is the Crooked Bullet. It is supposed to bring peace to the marriage. By family tradition, it must be passed to the first son to get married in the family as it had been passed down for five generations. But since I do not have a son, I will give it to you”.

“Thank you, Papa. I will take care of it and cherish it.”, Kalyan was pleased to learn.

“The pendant must not be lost though, else the result will be a life plagued with great hardship for many generations following.” Raj Desai warned.

“It will not be lost, Papa. I promise to keep it and also give it to your grandson when the time comes.” Kalyan promised

Raj closed the box, quite lovingly tucked it away again in the locker, and turned the key. Then he opened a big steel safe door to put the key in. The safe contained a lot of money that had been carelessly thrown in. He changed his mind; opened the locker once again, took out the box, and put it in the safe, nodding his head in the satisfaction that this made more sense.

“You have too much money in that safe Papa; you ought to take it to the bank at the end of every day.” Kalyan worried.

“Yes, I know. There must be more than a hundred thousand pounds inside there, which are the cash sales for the entire day. Too many customers prefer to pay cash for the jewelry you know. Sangita would have insisted that the cash should be taken to the night deposit at the bank down the road, but never mind I will do that in the morning. Nobody is coming to steal a safe my son, this is London.” Raj reasoned. Up on the wall, the scowling picture of Sangita seemed to accuse him even more and to make him momentarily nervous.

“After you and Rupinder are married, I think I will sell the shop and like old man Shami “Bhatti” Bhatnagar, return home to Mumbai.” He declared

They both exit the office, switching off the lights behind them. Raj engaged the shop security system, after which they both exit the shop through a side door, which Raj also locked. Raj’s car, a Mercedes, was parked a few yards away, and both walked slowly toward it.

There was still a bit of a chill outside; summer was still several weeks away. Raj pushed his wool cap tighter on his head and wrapped his coat tighter around him. He had been thinking of what to do next. When you were nearly sixty, life seemed to become so routine, and the choices available for nearly everything became so few. Before Kalyan arrived, he had been trying to make a choice between having dinner at the Hyderabad Darbar Restaurant down the road or going nearer home at Romford to Aroma on High Street. And maybe thereafter going to The Bitter End pub for a pint or two and a chat with the denizens. Now he wasn’t quite sure anymore what to do with himself, his coveted companionship with loneliness suddenly broken

“Give me the key Papa, I will drive you home,” Kalyan suggested. They both entered the car and drove away into the darkness.