papers and records trying to find anything that might be linked to his last words, but I didn’t find anything useful.’
‘I know,’ said Raashi. Virkar threw her a sharp look.
‘I’ve been following you all night; how else would I know that you were here?’ She broke into a self-conscious grin. For a few seconds, Virkar held his stony stare but then broke into laughter himself. Virkar and Raashi laughed together and suddenly lapsed into an embarrassed, self-conscious silence.
Raashi spoke after a long moment. ‘Look, now that another Crime Branch team is taking over the case, you can’t officially speak to anyone, but if there is anyone or anything that you would like to investigate unofficially, let me do it for you.’
Virkar studied her eyes, which, as he had discovered that evening, were luminous brown. His gaze trailed along her unpainted mouth and the smooth texture of her skin.
Was this
a trap?
He shrugged off the notion. The Hunterwali came across as genuine enough now. Virkar nodded. ‘Okay, but right now I’ve got nothing. Maybe
you
can tell me what “Smooth Operator” means? Is it some kind of slang?’
Raashi replied in a heartbeat. ‘The only “Smooth Operator” I know of is that old song by Sade.’
Virkar raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Shaade? I’ve never heard of this singer. Does he sing playback for Hindi films?’
Raashi giggled. ‘Sade is a
she
—a British singer from the eighties.’
Virkar face turned red with embarrassment. He cleared his throat. ‘A female British singer? How can she be connected to our Compass Box Killer?’
Raashi shrugged.
Virkar continued to think out loud. ‘Hmm…maybe the killer is not Indian. Perhaps the killer is an NRI? From the NGO files I saw at Colasco’s office, I discovered that he was connected to many international aid organizations that regularly send foreigners and NRIs to Mumbai for volunteer work.’ Virkar took out three hundred-rupee notes and slipped them under the beer mug. He gave Raashi a small nod and rose to leave.
‘Hey, where are you going?’ Raashi looked surprised.
‘I’m going back to Colasco’s office. I have to check out this NRI angle, I hadn’t thought of it before. I probably have a couple of hours left before the peons come to open the office.’
Raashi clicked her tongue. ‘Take it easy, Virkar, I was just showing off my knowledge of western pop music. How can you jump to conclusions based on an old song called
Smooth
Operator
?’
Virkar turned to go. ‘Maybe I
am
jumping to conclusions. But I’ve got to check out all the possibilities. I’ve overlooked too many things already and made too many mistakes.’
Raashi got up to join him. ‘I’ll come with you.’ But Virkar put out a restraining hand. ‘No, thanks. I’ll do this on my own.’ Raashi looked at him, a little miffed.
‘Don’t worry. If I find something, I’ll definitely let you know,’ he added, his tone reassuring.
Raashi attempted to protest as they walked out into the back alley that served as the exit for patrons of Sunny Bar’s morning shift. But Virkar smiled at her and ducked into a narrow bylane where he had parked his Bullet. As he rode away, Raashi’s face bore an indecipherable expression of concern and dread.
19
‘T racy Barton. That was her name. Tracy Barton from Durham, England. “Little Orphan Tracy”. Taken in by abusive foster parents who cared less for her and more for drugs, an addiction that they both succumbed to when she was sixteen. Tough Tracy. Who had put herself through school and got herself the best college education through sheer grit and intelligence. She had landed herself a plum corporate job as soon as she graduated and was well on her way up, climbing the rungs of the corporate ladder, when suddenly, at the age of twenty-five, Tracy quit her job, left London and travelled to Indian shores—to Dharavi, Asia’s largest slum in Mumbai, to be exact. Tracy planned to dedicate her
‘I know,’ said Raashi. Virkar threw her a sharp look.
‘I’ve been following you all night; how else would I know that you were here?’ She broke into a self-conscious grin. For a few seconds, Virkar held his stony stare but then broke into laughter himself. Virkar and Raashi laughed together and suddenly lapsed into an embarrassed, self-conscious silence.
Raashi spoke after a long moment. ‘Look, now that another Crime Branch team is taking over the case, you can’t officially speak to anyone, but if there is anyone or anything that you would like to investigate unofficially, let me do it for you.’
Virkar studied her eyes, which, as he had discovered that evening, were luminous brown. His gaze trailed along her unpainted mouth and the smooth texture of her skin.
Was this
a trap?
He shrugged off the notion. The Hunterwali came across as genuine enough now. Virkar nodded. ‘Okay, but right now I’ve got nothing. Maybe
you
can tell me what “Smooth Operator” means? Is it some kind of slang?’
Raashi replied in a heartbeat. ‘The only “Smooth Operator” I know of is that old song by Sade.’
Virkar raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Shaade? I’ve never heard of this singer. Does he sing playback for Hindi films?’
Raashi giggled. ‘Sade is a
she
—a British singer from the eighties.’
Virkar face turned red with embarrassment. He cleared his throat. ‘A female British singer? How can she be connected to our Compass Box Killer?’
Raashi shrugged.
Virkar continued to think out loud. ‘Hmm…maybe the killer is not Indian. Perhaps the killer is an NRI? From the NGO files I saw at Colasco’s office, I discovered that he was connected to many international aid organizations that regularly send foreigners and NRIs to Mumbai for volunteer work.’ Virkar took out three hundred-rupee notes and slipped them under the beer mug. He gave Raashi a small nod and rose to leave.
‘Hey, where are you going?’ Raashi looked surprised.
‘I’m going back to Colasco’s office. I have to check out this NRI angle, I hadn’t thought of it before. I probably have a couple of hours left before the peons come to open the office.’
Raashi clicked her tongue. ‘Take it easy, Virkar, I was just showing off my knowledge of western pop music. How can you jump to conclusions based on an old song called
Smooth
Operator
?’
Virkar turned to go. ‘Maybe I
am
jumping to conclusions. But I’ve got to check out all the possibilities. I’ve overlooked too many things already and made too many mistakes.’
Raashi got up to join him. ‘I’ll come with you.’ But Virkar put out a restraining hand. ‘No, thanks. I’ll do this on my own.’ Raashi looked at him, a little miffed.
‘Don’t worry. If I find something, I’ll definitely let you know,’ he added, his tone reassuring.
Raashi attempted to protest as they walked out into the back alley that served as the exit for patrons of Sunny Bar’s morning shift. But Virkar smiled at her and ducked into a narrow bylane where he had parked his Bullet. As he rode away, Raashi’s face bore an indecipherable expression of concern and dread.
19
‘T racy Barton. That was her name. Tracy Barton from Durham, England. “Little Orphan Tracy”. Taken in by abusive foster parents who cared less for her and more for drugs, an addiction that they both succumbed to when she was sixteen. Tough Tracy. Who had put herself through school and got herself the best college education through sheer grit and intelligence. She had landed herself a plum corporate job as soon as she graduated and was well on her way up, climbing the rungs of the corporate ladder, when suddenly, at the age of twenty-five, Tracy quit her job, left London and travelled to Indian shores—to Dharavi, Asia’s largest slum in Mumbai, to be exact. Tracy planned to dedicate her
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