ction>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
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
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.
