The Lost Woman of Santacruz: Police Inspector Ajay Shaktawat Series - Book I

By Vijay Medtia

Mid-July, Inspector Ajay Shaktawat is called to a house. A retired Deputy Commissioner of Police has been beaten to death. A young man is barely alive besides him. Both are the victims of shocking cruelty.

The intense investigation leads to a woman missing from Santacruz, Mumbai. At the same time, a crazed cop killer terrorises Mumbai. No one understands the connection or motive. Inspector Shaktawat must battle against time and the increasing body count of retired officers if he's to succeed. Now with time running short, a tough Special Branch officer from Delhi monitors his activities.

Meanwhile, Shaktawat's life is in shambles: his wife has left him four
months ago along with his two teenage children. He's struggling to win her back. His mother, a robust seventy year-old, barely tolerates him. Loneliness has cut into his life. He works tirelessly, has gained weight and drinks most nights away. Will he be able to get his life back on track?

Will Shaktawat catch the elusive murderer before he strikes again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: May 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9789354387777

Vijay Medtia

Vijay Medtia is a novelist and short story writer, based in the UK. He visits India regularly for his inspiration. In God’s Country, Karwar, is his fourth novel. His debut novel, The House of Subadar, was published by Arcadia Books, UK in 2007. It was short-listed for the Glenn Dimplex, Literary Prize, Dublin 2008.He has had several short stories published in the UK and India. His recent short story, ‘Master Chef,’ was published by the Singapore based literary magazine Kitaab.org in July 2023.His second novel, The Missing Husband, was published by Crocus Books, UK, 2019 and received good reviews. His third novel was The Lost Woman of Santacruz, published by Leadstart, India, 2021. Again, it received good reviews from readers and the media. There is interest from a TV and film production house in India, to turn The Lost Woman of Santacruz into a film or a ten-part crime drama.He likes the quote, ‘There is nothing impossible for him who will try,’ by Alexander the Great.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE call to Santacruz police station came at 7.15 a.m. Constable Yadav, grumpy from all-night duty and who was about to leave, answered. He listened to the frantic voice, rubbing the side of his head. A man claimed that a dog whined in a kitchen and his neighbour’s body lay in the hallway. This sparked his attention and he wrote down the details. When he finished, he dialled a number.

Ajay Shaktawat drank black coffee to nurse a hangover. For three nights, he had worked on a drug surveillance operation. He had hit the bed at 3.00 a.m., after having one drink too many. He resolved to quit drink but he had tried that many times without success. When his mobile rang, he entered the cluttered bedroom. He lived alone, one reason he opted for late-night duties. Four months ago, his wife had left with his two teenage children. The mobile stopped as he found it under a pizza box.

He returned to the sitting room as rain tapped against the windows of his two-bedroom apartment. The grim morning didn’t make him feel better. If his wife saw the kitchen, she would never return. Curry boxes lay on the counter along with beer bottles. The sink overflowed with pans; stale food and alcohol smell surrounded him. He needed to clean up; it wasn’t good to live in a pigsty.

A call this early meant either a road accident or his boss wanted an urgent meeting. The phone rang again as he stood staring at the TV.

–Inspector Shaktawat.

–I’ve been trying to reach you, Sir.

–I’m answering now Yadav, I’ve been up half the night watching stupid drug dealers. What’s up, accident?

–No Sir. A man called Patil phoned and said there was a problem with his neighbour. The neighbour’s dog was whining. When he looked through the side window, a body lay in the hallway. He thinks the man is dead. The neighbour was the retired Deputy Commissioner of Police, Dinesh Chandra.

Shaktawat narrowed his eyes.

–All right, send PSI Shinde and Rehman. I’ll meet them there. Send an ambulance too. What’s the address?

–250 Sona Road, Swadesh retirement colony, Santacruz.

He jotted it down in his notebook and dressed in his khaki uniform. He loosened the brown leather belt another notch on his trouser. He had to stop eating fast food; it had increased since his wife had left. If it were DCP Chandra, then this would be big news before the day was over. As Police Inspector of Santacruz district, this investigation would fall on his head.

Ajay Shaktawat lived in a rented high-rise apartment block on the edge of Santacruz. He had placed a large deposit on a new three-bedroom apartment in the adjoining district of Vile Parle. This however was in limbo as his wife had left. As usual, her timing sucked.

He came down the unreliable lift and clenched his fist. They would lose the deposit if they didn’t reconcile. He hoped that she returned once she had taught him a lesson. She was good at teaching him lessons. What was it that she had said? Yes, she wanted time apart, so that he could learn to appreciate them

Inside the police SUV, he blew out his cheeks and drove out. The roads were flooded. People tiptoed across puddles and held black umbrellas at an angle. He wound down the window and felt the air on his face. People needed to shout at the incompetent government. How difficult was it to fix the underground drainage?

He drove through the morning rush, swerved past a dog and switched on the radio. An excited reporter talked about a coach overturning in Worli but amazingly, no one had died.

Life was crazy and fragile. Here today, gone tomorrow.

A coach overturns and no one dies. In a house, DCP Chandra was apparently dead. The random and callous nature of death always struck him. The sons of bitches that needed to die, continued to live. Good people died young. There seemed no sense of justice.

Ever since he was a young officer working the night beat in his home city of Udaipur, he was aware of death. A smuggler had shot twice at him but the bullets had just missed. Unfortunately, they had killed a beggar behind. The Gods had spared him but taken another life in his place. Then he had been twenty-five and suddenly aware that life was precious. His family hadn’t wanted him to join the police. His mother had given him hell, but she gave hell to most people.

Lately, he wondered whether his father had been right when he used to complain, ‘beta, your mother will send me to an early grave.’ His prediction had proved correct; he had passed away three years ago in 1995. This wasn’t fair of course, people died when their time was up.

He drove past wet buildings, malls, high-rise office blocks, and people holding black umbrellas. The splashing noise of the rain rang in his ears and competed with the traffic and horns. He shut off the radio when a cheerful Hindi song started. He had a bad feeling as he drove. He turned on the siren and accelerated past cars, scooters, and trucks.

The police squad jeep waited for him outside the two-storey house on Sona Road. His sub-inspectors, Shinde and Rehman, both in their early thirties stood outside ringing the bell and knocking on the door. The hefty figure of Rehman looked as if he wanted to break the door with his fists.

The ambulance had arrived and the driver waited inside. The rain eased as Shaktawat stepped out in his dark brown coat.

The house had cream coloured walls with a sloping red-tiled roof and a neat garden to the front. An old white Fiat stood in the drive and all the curtains were drawn. Neighbours peaked out of windows. The rain hit his skin as PSI Shinde hurried towards him.

–Sir, a man is lying in the hallway, but we can’t see him clearly. No one is answering the door either, shall we breakthrough?

–Yes.

A man stepped out of next door, looking anxious with silver-grey hair and glasses. He looked like a retired tax inspector.

–Good morning Saab, I’m Patil, I made the call. I know something is terribly wrong.

–Hello, I’m Police Inspector Ajay Shaktawat. Let’s see what’s happened here. I’d like you to stay back.

–My poor neighbour Chandra is lying on the floor, he’s probably dead by now.

–Let’s not jump to conclusions, he said and signalled to Rehman to prize open the front door.

Rehman and Shinde used claw hammers and brute physical force to kick down the door. The officers put on plastic gloves. Shaktawat followed the others and all three held their nose. Urine smell hit them and they hadn’t been prepared for what they saw.

It was a horrific crime scene and he had seen a few over the years. A man lay face down and lifeless in the corridor covered in blood. The front room was empty but the horror was in the back room. They stepped around the pool of blood. Rehman pulled back the curtains and they saw the grisly crime.

The dim morning light showed an elderly man tied to a wooden chair, grey hair, and with a thick grey moustache. His mouth had been taped shut with black tape. His head fell back, eyes staring at the ceiling. Blood had soaked his beige checked shirt and had sprayed across the floor tiles and bed sheets. Two fingers from his left-hand lay cut on the floor. His right foot crushed as if hit by a hammer. Shaktawat understood what that meant.

–God, is that DCP Chandra? asked Shinde.

–If it is, he’s seen better days, said Rehman.

Shaktawat tried to remain calm but it was a grisly sight. Pain marked the man’s distorted face. It looked like Chandra but he wasn’t sure. It made him feel sick. He moved back to the corridor and leaned over the body of the man on the floor. A man around thirty, eyes closed but remarkably, life flickered in him. The man breathed feebly, gasping at his last breaths. He should have been dead; he had several stab wounds on his back.

–Ambulance now! He’s alive, said Shaktawat, louder than he had intended, and his two sub-inspectors jumped to attention.

Rehman rushed out of the house, whilst Shinde said.

–Who the hell, could this be?

They heard a loud thud from the kitchen. They drew their guns and entered. An Alsatian hurled itself towards them with viciousness rarely seen. It strained at the metal chain, tied to the back door. It growled with hatred blazing in its eyes, even though its mouth had been taped shut with black tape. It thrashed around violently, rattling the chain.

When Shaktawat’s heartbeat calmed down, he said.

–It’s okay boy, it’s okay. Call the dog-handler team Shinde. I don’t want it chewing off our faces.

Shaktawat noted the back door was intact, no forced entry. There were five solid locks on the back door. He made a quick check upstairs with his gun drawn. No more bodies in the two bedrooms, but the criminals had ransacked the cupboards and desks.

A violent robbery was his first impression.

The degree of violence however gave him doubts. He saw a framed photo of DCP Chandra in his uniform on the bedroom wall. It confirmed the identity of the man in the chair downstairs.

–Don’t allow anyone inside, Rehman, he said, as he came down the stairs.

He could see Patil staring in from the front door. The ambulance team dealt with the man in the corridor as forensics arrived.

Neighbours gaped from doors and gardens, some holding their hands to their mouths. Cars slowed down and the drivers leaned out of the windows to gawp. The ambulance team took away the young man on a stretcher.

–It seems like a butcher has gone crazy, said Shinde.

–You won’t be the last one to say it either. Listen Shinde, you go with the ambulance and report if he improves. Stay close to him.

Shinde raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.

–He’ll be lucky to make the hospital.

–I know, but go anyway. I’m going to speak to the neighbour.

The rain touched his skin but it felt cold and intrusive. He walked to the neighbour’s house, Patil looked afraid now and that was natural.

–Is Chandra dead? asked Patil in a shaking voice.

–Yes, I’m afraid so.

The blood drained from the man’s face.

CHAPTER 2

THEY stood in the kitchen across the dining table. It was similar to Chandra’s, minus the aggressive dog. A picture of Goddess Laxmi hung on one wall. Patil’s wife made some masala chai but she looked upset. She stared out of the window and the tea nearly overflowed out of the pan. She passed the tea in two white mugs; it tasted good and was welcome. The rim of the mug pushed against Shaktawat’s black moustache as he took a sip. He explained what had happened and spared them the brutal details.

–Please, explain what you saw or heard from the start.

Patil shook his head and clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking.

–I can’t believe this tragedy. Poor Chandra dead, I just can’t believe it. What would have happened if they had targeted us?

–Thank God they didn’t. Can you explain what happened?

Patil glanced at his wife, who leaned against the grey units wearing a green sari. He explained the events of this morning. He first heard the dog whining and thought it unusual. Chandra was particular for walking his dog at 6.30 a.m. without fail.

The dog never made that sound. Patil was about to go for his morning walk when he decided to check on the dog. He heard it thrashing around in the kitchen. The noise scared him. The curtains were drawn apart from the side window in the corridor. He saw a body on the floor and assumed it was DCP Chandra, who had taken a fall.

He rang the doorbell but no one answered, so he phoned the police. Patil took deep breaths and stared at the fridge that had a Taj Mahal magnet piece stuck on the door.

Patil added that he had no idea who the other man was as Chandra lived alone. Chandra had divorced his wife some years ago and had one son. There wasn’t contact between them or any other family members.

–Did DCP Chandra keep large sums of money in the house?

– Unlikely, Chandra wasn’t rich, he lived off his police pension and was a miser. His motto was, a rupee saved, is a rupee earned. I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but my God, he was tight with his money.

Shaktawat leaned against the wall, holding his pen over his notebook.

–Did you hear or see any cars or people come to the house last night?

–No, we usually sleep early. This is a retirement colony and most of us are in bed by 9.30 p.m.

–Any idea who the other man might be, a son or relative perhaps?

–Could be, but Chandra had cut off from his family. He told me once that they hadn’t treated him with respect and he wouldn’t stand for that nonsense. Let’s see, Chandra was around sixty-six years old and he told me he divorced his wife eight years ago.

–Did he have any regular visitors?

–No Saab, he didn’t even invite me for a cup of tea. I told you he was miserly.

Shaktawat stroked his moustache and beard. He didn’t like the answers.

–Any potential enemies he might have mentioned.

–Who knows, you police people always have enemies, isn’t that so?

–How long have you been neighbours?

Patil rubbed the side of his head. –Chandra retired when he was sixty, and a year later, he moved here. So, for about five years.

–You didn’t have any trouble with him.

–No, as I said Chandra walked his dog every morning, took it to the nearby park at 6.30 a.m. without fail. He kept to himself, he wasn’t friendly, though we tried.

Shaktawat finished his tea.

–Do you know where his wife and son live?

–No, he only ever mentioned them the one time. He was a scary man, Saab. He didn’t wish to make friends and I thought it sad. Old age is hard enough and people make it harder for themselves. Inspector, whatever Chandra was like, no one should suffer such a fate. I hope you will catch the criminals.

They walked into the corridor and out to the front door.

–We’ll try our best. What do you do by the way? he asked, putting on his coat.

–I’m a retired civil servant, worked in the planning department. Can I ask again, if we are safe?

–Yes, there will be police patrols here now. Criminals don’t usually return to the same place.

As they came outside, the rain had stopped and a breeze blew across the garden. Several police vehicles and officers were present now and Rehman was guiding them.

–At least the dog wasn’t hurt. The dog must have seen who the criminals were. If you think of anything however small, don’t hesitate to contact me.

Patil didn’t seem convinced about his assurance but what extra security could he provide. As he left the house, the first impression of a violent robbery remained. The criminals had targeted a high-ranking retired police officer. They wouldn’t be spared. The Mumbai police would come down on their heads. Even crime bosses understood the unwritten rule that you don’t kill police officers, retired or otherwise. Were they dealing with some crazy psychopath unaware of the consequences of this crime?

He walked across to Chandra’s house, the area cordoned off with red police tape and several constables stood outside. The forensic team led by Anil Mishra had arrived and he was inside, along with photographers. Shaktawat stood outside a moment as the morning light brightened and the breeze caught the back of his neck. Mishra came out, adjusted his black-rimmed glasses, and shook his head. This meant that his team would turn every little detail upside down.

Mishra was forty-two years old, one year older than he was. Mishra was a passionate forensic team leader and a police officer. His nickname at the station was, ‘the computer.’ He had a prolific memory and sharp intellect, and usually investigated a crime scene thoroughly. Mishra’s presence always reassured him. If the criminals had made one mistake, Mishra would find it. Mishra took off his plastic gloves, moved towards the front door and took a deep breath.

–It’s a bloodbath.

–Yeah, but they were after something specific. You saw the fingers and crushed toes on the right foot, said Shaktawat.

–I did, it also means Chandra had held out for a long time, whatever he was hiding. You don’t lose two fingers and have your toes crushed; whatever people might say Chandra was tough. Any leads?

–Nothing so far. At least they left the dog alone, if by a miracle the other man survives, then we will know.

Mishra shook his head. –It will be a miracle if he lives. I haven’t seen it this bad in years. Ajay, we need to find the evil bastards who have done this before they strike again. It could be a gang targeting the elderly.

Shaktawat nodded and drove away. Forensics and Mishra would be there for days looking for prints, clues, and evidence. On the way out of the colony, a TV van sped past him. No doubt, reporters for one of the channels and this would be big news. It wasn’t every day that a retired DCP was tortured and butchered to death. Again, he prayed that the other man survived.

Why had the young man been there in the first place?

He overtook a blue van. The gruesome murder had shaken him. Did such a fate await him after he retired? Would he turn into a sad, miserly man, bitter at the world? Why the torture, what had the killers wanted from DPC Chandra?

He drove past swaying trees and damp stained buildings, trying to figure out how he would proceed with this murder investigation. At the lights, a man pushed a cart full of red gas bottles, then he saw a brand-new Toyota. The social disparity in Mumbai grew every year, the rich grew richer, the poor, poorer.

He turned right at the lights. He would have to lead this investigation, no one else had the necessary experience. He was the police inspector for Santacruz and had the most experience, even though he had just turned forty-one.

The case wouldn’t be routine either. The pressure to find the criminals would build from the home minister. They would expect quick results. He also had to inform the next of kin, something no officer liked doing. If the only witness died, they would have a double-homicide on their hands.

The case had landed at the worst possible moment. He needed time to convince his wife Nisha to return. The precious quantity was again slipping through his fingers. He gripped the steering wheel and needed to focus his energy on solving the crime, he also needed to focus on his wife. Something would have to give.

He returned to Santacruz police station, first turning right at the gardens. He parked the SUV in the large compound. Leaves had stuck to the ground along the boundary wall. The ground was slippery and the smell of damp dust and leaves filled the air.

Climbing the steps of the double-storied building, he wondered whether he should consider another profession. Who needed this growing brutality and violence? Try to live a simpler life. This thought had grown keener in the last three years and more so since his wife had left with the children. He tried not to feel a complete failure. He entered the reception and nodded at the staff at the desks.

There was the usual line of people to the right looking weary with their complaints. They came to report the loss of something, sometimes everything, a wallet, phone, mangalsutra, sometimes their dignity, a wife, son, daughter, or their sanity. They all came for solutions, day after day, hoping for answers to their grief and trauma. He tried to do his best but it wasn’t easy. He walked down the corridor, his shoes echoing on the tiled floor.

He entered his office, took off his hat, coat, and sat behind the desk. It had a photo of his family, smiling at the Gateway of India, taken two years ago. He again felt sorry for himself, shuffled a couple of files, and tried to clear the mess. He flicked the calendar page to today, Thursday 15thJuly 1998.

The phone rang and he was sure it was from the hospital, informing him that the only witness had died. Typical of his bad luck of late. When he answered, it was his daughter Priya.

–Hello Papa.

It was good to hear her voice after weeks.

–Hi, where are you calling from?

–I’m in an STD booth.

Her voice sounded hesitant, afraid.

– Are you okay?

–Well yes...but these boys have been teasing me near our school and...

–Where and when? he asked, trying to keep the anger out of his voice.

–Mummy told me not to phone you but...

–I’m not dead exactly. Tell me who they are and where it happened.

She gave him the details of two men, early twenties riding black motorbikes. They had whistled at her when she walked to school. He wrote it down in his notebook. Anger replaced the earlier emotion. The kids were paying for the separation because two adults couldn’t get along.

–Priya, you can phone me anytime, you know that right.

–Yes, I know, but Mummy becomes angry and I don’t wish to upset her unnecessarily.

–How is Pratap?

–Brother has had two fights at school but he’s all