Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

Yes, Kamala knew more about anger, about the rotting remnants of friendship stored at the back of almirahs, old photographs and shirts given as gifts and souvenirs carried back from winter holidays in lovely Singapore, all of it curdling into black bitterness that burned through the day, morning and night, so that finally the only relief would be the blackmail. Not because it would yield money, but because it would cause humiliation and pain. Money was good, but healing and peace would come from elsewhere. Yes, Kamala understood. There was motive, and opportunity. Not enough to prosecute, but certainly enough to investigate.

'Give me Rachel's information, please.'

Kamala wrote swiftly, all from memory, in her pretty looping hand.

'All right,' Sartaj said. 'I will investigate. Your mobile number, please, Mr Umesh?'

'That's all?'

'It's enough for now.'

'I thought you would want to know lots of things.'

'If I have any questions, I'll call you. Number?' Sartaj wrote down Umesh's number, snapped his notebook shut. 'Remember what I told you,' he said to Kamala. 'Listen, just listen. And don't be afraid of them. They may act tough, but they need you. I'll be in touch.'

'So now you'll investigate those calls?' Umesh said. 'Follow them up at the calling numbers?' He was thrilled by the investigative process, by the potential pleasures of the story, even though it involved him directly.

'Something like that,' Sartaj said. 'You like detective movies?'

'Only Hollywood movies. Our Indian ones are so badly made.'

There was no denying that. 'That's true,' Sartaj said. 'But sometimes the Indian ones get things right also.'

Umesh plainly didn't believe this, but he let it pass. 'Why don't you just have Kamala tell them that she's going to pay, and then arrest them when they come to collect?'

'Because they expect that, and already are working against it. That's why they sent the chokra to get the money from her the first time. These boys are being careful. It's too risky. No use tipping them off.'

'They're that good?'

'Good, but not that good,' Sartaj said. 'We'll get them. Let us work on it.'

Umesh looked sceptical. Sartaj raised a hand in farewell, and left them sitting together, uncomfortable together but well-matched. Outside, he put his dark glasses on against the low late-afternoon sun. The glasses were quite out of style, he realized suddenly, by at least two years, maybe more. Maybe it was time to buy new ones. But he felt affectionate towards this old, battered black pair. They'd been through a lot together, and there was something to be said for the old and familiar and comfortable. Style was hard work, and expensive besides. He had got too old and too poor to work at it. Sartaj grinned at himself – what a boring, aged budhdha you've become – and drove on.

* * *

Kamala Pandey had a good head for detail, but the blackmailers had been very careful. The phone calls were spread out over the northern suburbs, both east and west, and there was only one call from each number. The only pattern Sartaj could pick out was that the calls came either early in the morning, between eight and ten, or after six in the evening. Which meant that the blackmailers had jobs. They were taking care of this business around the work of making a living.

'These are all PCOs,' Kamble said. 'I'm sure.'

'I know,' Sartaj said. He had recruited Kamble into the investigation that evening, once he had figured out exactly how much legwork was going to be involved. Kamble was quite willing to be recruited, for a price: forty per cent of the take. But working with Kamble also meant drinking with him at the Delite Dance Bar, and playing alibi for him with his girlfriends. Sartaj had already lied, as instructed, to two dancers about where Kamble had been earlier that evening. Sartaj said to him now, 'There's only one call from each place, so it's not likely that the operators will remember who made a call. But we'll cover the PCOs, starting with the most recent calls first. You want west or east?'

'West, boss.' Kamble was staring hungrily at the three dancers on the floor, who were spinning languidly to ' Aaja gufaon mein aa '. The sequined blue and pink and green of their ghagras was gorgeous to watch, Sartaj had to admit. They were young. But it was early in the night, and the Delite was nearly empty, and they weren't being very energetic in their seductions. Kamble looked like he wanted to liven them up, by any means necessary. No doubt he would.

'All right,' Sartaj said. 'I'll take east. See you tomorrow.'

'Arre,' Kamble said, 'stay.'

'Tomorrow will be an early day. Extra work to do.'

'Every day is an extra-work day. Just have another drink with me.'

'Had my limit.' Sartaj got up.

'You need to get some sex in your life.'

'With whom?'

'Any of these.'

'No chance.'

'What, you think they won't like you? Boss, don't worry. They'll eat you up.'

'Exactly that.'

'Too easy? Then go for the one that doesn't want you. But you need to get back into the game, Mr Singh.'

'I do? Why?'

'What else is there?'

Indeed. What else was there? Retirement, or retreat? Ma had her religion, but that was only after a full lifetime with Papa-ji. Could you step out of the game at an early age, like some sanyasi who gave up everything and set off for the hills? No, Sartaj knew he couldn't do that. But he was going to get out of Delite for now. He was very tired, and he just wanted to go home. He raised his glass, emptied it. 'Thanks,' he said. 'Tomorrow, then.'

Kamble wasn't satisfied, but he gave in gracefully. He bared his big, toothy smile. 'Tomorrow,' he said. 'Tomorrow we'll see.'

* * *

Sartaj called Iffat-bibi that night, just before sleep. She had phoned him soon after Katekar's death, to express her condolences. She knew that they had been working together for a long time, but she also somehow knew about Katekar's young children, and had offered a nicely medium-sized sum of money to help the family. Sartaj had turned her down again, but after that they had spoken often on the phone. She was cunning, funny, and had endless stories to tell about apradhis and policemen from the past. She offered him little bits of intelligence, rumours and locations and names, and asked for nothing in return but that Sartaj make it easier, if he could, for any of her company's boys who went through his lock-up to meet their families. The information she provided was accurate and useful, but never concerned big cases or notorious apradhis. It was all comfortably small-time, and Sartaj felt their trade was fair, with no obligation left over on either side. And it was somehow restful to listen to her talk about Papa-ji. Papa-ji had talked to her about all his cases, it seemed, and Sartaj was getting a slowly emerging portrait of the old man that he could not have found anywhere else. Papa-ji, it turned out, was not so simply foppish as he may have looked, with his passion for double-breasted coats and custom-made shoes. He was vain, but without ego in the matter of his job. He knew his beat, and he had an instinct for what both apradhis and victims would do next. His arrests were not spectacular, but they were frequent, and they were steady and real, not fluff-jobs conjured up to bulk out an annual report. He was respected, despite his sartorial extravagances. But his vanity kept him mostly honest, at least in the big ways that made a difference to his career. He could not stand the thought that he, Sardar Tejpal Singh, was to be bought like a loaf of bread sitting on a shelf, like a packet of cigarettes. His pride kept him from being obsequious to his seniors: he was willing to ask for a favour, but he stopped at that. He found it impossible to persuade, wheedle, beg or bribe.

'Such a stubborn man,' Iffat-bibi said now, 'but he kept his head up like he wanted. Not that it did him much good.'