Chapter 69
HURT, NISHA TWISTED and in the bouncing beam of the flashlight caught a glimpse of her assailant. A grubby man wearing filthy shorts and a ripped vest, his hair was long, reaching his shoulders. In his upraised hand was a short club of some kind, ready for another attack.
“Who are you?” he demanded, advancing on her.
But she was in no mood to answer questions. The pigeons were terrifying, but grimy guys with big sticks she could deal with.
As he advanced she dazzled him with the torch and pivoted at the same time, sweeping his legs from beneath him.
The club spun off as he fell badly, and with a shout of pain so loud she didn’t even bother drawing her gun. In a second she was astride him, pinning him to the floor and dazzling him again with the flashlight. Now she saw him for what he was: a grimy, broken-down old man. She felt mildly nauseous as she was hit by the stench of his unwashed body and bad breath. On his clothes was the odor of cheap alcohol and stale tobacco smoke.
“We can do this either the easy way or the hard way,” hissed Nisha. “Answer a few questions for me and I leave you with enough cash for a tipple. Play tough and I leave you with busted kneecaps.”
He blinked in the light, his eyes adjusting. “Why? Who are you?”
“My name is Nisha Gandhe and I’m an investigator,” she replied, out of breath. “I was hoping that a visit to this place would help me find out a little more about Elina Xavier.”
“Why do you want to know?” he asked cautiously.
“She was murdered a few days ago and research into her background showed that she had once been the headmistress of this orphanage,” replied Nisha. “Why don’t you begin by telling me who you are and what you’re doing here?”
“I used to be the night guard for the orphanage,” he said, lips loosened by the promise of more booze. “I stayed here until the place shut down during the Mumbai riots.”
“Why would the riots affect an orphanage?”
Pinned beneath her, he still managed a shrug. “Riot’s a riot. Riot doesn’t care what it destroys.”
“And what are you doing here now?”
Again he shrugged. “It’s here or the streets.”
“And you were an employee during the years when Elina Xavier was the headmistress here?”
“Sure,” said the man. “I was officially employed here at that time. She was a real tight-ass, that one.”
“What do you mean?” asked Nisha curiously.
“She had all the trustees wrapped around her little finger. She could do whatever she wanted and get away with it because they were all on her side. She was arrogant and bossy with everyone here.”
“How was she with the children?”
“She was a harsh taskmaster, demanding discipline, courteousness, and hard work from the kids.”
“Anything else that I should know?” asked Nisha, tightening her grip on his wrists.
“There were rumors … but I never saw it happen,” said the man suddenly.
“Rumors about what?” asked Nisha.
“That she beat the children,” he said uncomfortably. “I remember hearing them crying and screaming at night, but I was never sure whether it was because of Xavier.”
“Was there any evidence to suggest that she abused the children?”
“The housekeeper who cleaned the dormitory would talk of soiled sheets and bloody welts,” replied the man cautiously, “but then that woman hated Xavier. I could never be sure what to believe.”
“Why didn’t the trustees take action? Why would they sit by quietly if there were instances of abuse?”
“The chief trustee was a powerful man. I can’t remember his name now but he was very well connected, the bugger. Xavier was bonking him. In her younger days she was quite a looker,” winked the deadbeat.
Nisha thought about what the man had just said and released his arms. Getting off him, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a five-hundred-rupee bill that she handed over to him wordlessly. She then turned around and made her way out of that dark and evil place that still seemed to echo with the cries and screams of orphans.
Chapter 70
ON THE WEDNESDAY that Elina Xavier, the school principal, had been murdered, she had spent the better part of the day in Mahim Church.
She had shuffled her way through the crowds gathered for prayers. Although it was a Catholic parish, few people in Mumbai called it St Michael’s Church. For the average Mumbaikar—as Mumbai residents called themselves—it was simply known as Mahim Church after the area in which it was located, a place where not only Christians but also Hindus, Muslims, Parsis, Buddhists, and Sikhs could gather to pray.
It was believed that visiting the church on nine consecutive Wednesdays would result in wishes being granted—and this was Elina’s ninth. She had been diagnosed with leukemia a year previously but her doctors were now telling her that the disease was in remission after bone-marrow transplants, dialysis, and multiple rounds of chemotherapy. All she had wanted was her life back. Hence her desperate call for help to the Lord each Wednesday.
Father Luis had seen Elina Xavier and looked at his watch. She had specifically requested to say confession today. It seemed as though she had needed to get a few things that were bothering her off her chest. He had gestured to her to enter the confessional. Elina had pulled herself together, taken a deep breath, and followed him to the box, taking her place on the opposite side of the screen.
Wearing a pale blue dress and dark blue shoes, she had carried a smart white calfskin handbag and had had a dignified air about her. It had been obvious that she must have been eye-catching before age and illness had taken their toll.
She had pulled a piece of paper out of her purse.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been many years since my last confession,” Elina had said, kneeling down.
“Go ahead, Elina,” Father Luis had said.
“As you know, I used to manage the Bombay City Orphanage that was established by the Sir Jimmy Mehta Trust,” she had begun.
“Yes, I do recall that,” Father Luis had said through the screen.
“I did not do my duty, Father,” Elina had said, her eyes welling up.
“Why do you say that?” he had asked gently.
“I was in love with the chief trustee. He was a married man and I was determined to break up his marriage and become his wife. Our adulterous relationship continued for a couple of years.”
“I sense there is something more than this that you wish to confess,” Father Luis had said. He spoke with the experience of many years.
“I was so caught up in the affair that I allowed the orphanage’s funds to be embezzled by him. Eventually it had to shut down and is closed to this day,” Elina had replied.
“Be that as it may, you continued looking after the children while the orphanage lasted. That must count for something,” Father Luis had said sympathetically.
“But that’s just it. I was terrible to them. In particular, after I found out that I had been used like a whore by the chief trustee, I was overcome by rage. I began taking it out on the children who were in my charge.”
“How?” Father Luis had asked.
“I would beat them with a rod, often till the welts bled. I would hold their heads under water to discipline them. Sometimes I would fly into a fit of rage if they had wet their beds and would almost strangle them. I was worse than a witch.”
“If that was the case, how did you get your present position as the principal of such a well-respected girls’ school?”
Elina’s hands had trembled. “I blackmailed the chief trustee. I told him that the orphanage had closed down because of his financial misdeeds. I also had evidence of our sexual relationship, which I threatened to expose to his wife.”
“And in return, he managed to get you a plum post so that you would keep your mouth shut?”
“Precisely—at the girls’ school. Luckily for me, there had been an
instance of teen pregnancy there and a reporter from the Afternoon Mirror was chasing the story. I went to her office, screamed at her, and told her that I would get the girl’s parents to sue her for defamation if she printed anything. The threat worked and the paper dropped the piece. I became the darling of the board of trustees.”
“And was your old friend among them?”
“Yes,” Elina had replied. “He is still on the board but we rarely talk. I got married to the gym instructor at the school but my husband died a few years later from cirrhosis. I settled down into my role and made a new life for myself.”
“So why this confession, then?” Father Luis had asked.
“I was diagnosed with leukemia a year ago. Don’t worry … it’s in remission. I realize that I need to make a full confession so that I can stop walking around bearing the guilt of my past sins. I need a fresh start, Father.”
He had nodded. “And are you actually repentant for your sins?”
Elina had picked up the piece of paper that she had pulled out of her purse and had begun reading: “O God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.”
Father Luis had thought about what Elina had said for a moment. He had sighed before making the sign of the cross, closing his eyes, and speaking.
“Do you reject sin so as to live in the freedom of God’s children?” he had asked.
“I do,” Elina had replied.
“Do you reject Satan, father of sin and prince of darkness?”
“I do.”
“Do you believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth?”
“I do.”
“Do you believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, who was born of the Virgin Mary, was crucified, died, and was buried, rose from the dead, and is now seated at the right hand of the Father?”
“I do.”
“Do you believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting?”
“I do.”
“In that case, may our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you; and by His authority I absolve you from every bond of excommunication … I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
The priest had opened his eyes to look though the screen at Elina. She had already left.
Chapter 71
HARI PADHI LOOKED up at the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling and wondered whether the wire would support his weight if he tried to hang himself. Doing that would be preferable to the alternatives on offer.
If only he could get to it.
He lay naked and spreadeagled on the bare table, his hands and feet tied securely to the corners with prickly jute twine. After tying him down to the table, the disinterested cop had left, the cell door clanging noisily shut.
And now he counted the seconds and minutes as he waited, staring at the bulb. The silence in the cell was deafening and intense fear coupled with exhaustion began to tell on him. Softly, he wept.
Suddenly there was a loud noise, a flurry of activity, and Rupesh appeared by his side. Noticing the tears, the cop took out his kerchief from his pocket and wiped Hari’s face almost tenderly.
“Shhh. Don’t worry,” he whispered. “In a short while it will all be over,” he said, his tobacco-scented breath wafting into Hari’s nostrils.
Rupesh’s assistant plugged something into the power outlet immediately next to the prison cell. It was a simple yet brutally effective device—a long electrical cord with a plug at one end and splayed copper wires at the other.
“Are you ready?” asked Rupesh as he waited for the constable to turn on the power supply. The worried-looking constable ran over to him and wordlessly handed over the naked end of the long cord.
Holding the wire in his hand, Rupesh looked at Hari’s terrified face. He then began patiently to explain what he was about to do. “My electric prod has two electrodes of different polarity a short distance apart so that a circuit will be created via your testicles. You will feel extreme pain and distress because I shall keep the voltage high and the current low. I shall keep increasing the current if I do not hear what I want from you.
“Shall we begin?” asked Rupesh rhetorically as he placed one of the wires on Hari’s privates. Hari shut his eyes in terror as he waited for the circuit to be completed.
The ringing of the phone was almost deafening. Muttering a few choice expletives, Rupesh was forced to hand over the electrical cord to the constable in order to take the call. He listened carefully to the sub-inspector who was calling from a house in South Mumbai.
Hanging up, Rupesh looked at Hari and began to laugh almost demonically. “You have the devil’s luck, my friend,” he said as he left the prison cell hurriedly, his constable in tow.
Chapter 72
MUNNA SAT IN a comfortable recliner in a private VIP box at Wankhede Stadium. This was the usual venue for premier cricket matches in Mumbai and where one sat was a clear indicator of where one stood in the city’s pecking order.
Wankhede was packed to capacity today. Forty-five thousand spectators crammed the seven stands around the field. The high and mighty, however, were seated in thirty-seven special air-conditioned boxes.
Seated in Munna’s private box were politicians, businessmen, and movie stars. Money had the ability to make everyone and everything look respectable—including Munna and his shady organization. For the forty-five thousand cricket fans seated in the stands, cricket was all about passion and entertainment. For Munna, it was simply business. He chuckled to himself as he thought about the fact that very little happened on the pitch without his say-so.
Munna’s betting syndicate controlled the spot-fixing market in Indian cricket. Spot-fixing was different from match-fixing, given that it related to isolated incidents as opposed to the entire outcome of a match. With years of experience Munna had fine-tuned the art. For instance, a no-ball, wide delivery, or getting out for single-digit runs did not require all eleven players to be part of the fix. A single player was sufficient to achieve that. Munna’s gambling and betting empire ran by receiving bets on such individual events within a match. The result was that India had become the biggest hub for cricket betting across the world.
Seated next to Munna was a short, dark, and chubby man, wearing designer sunglasses. Munna flicked open his box of Marlboro Lights, but before he could reach for his gold lighter the man in shades had reached out with his own.
Public places were designated no-smoking zones but no one dared point that out to Munna. The chubby man nodded respectfully as his boss took a few more puffs and stubbed out the cigarette when his cell phone began to ring.
“Bol,” said Munna in Hindi. “Speak.”
The voice at the other end said something that seemed to upset Munna, but only momentarily. He recovered quickly as he spoke firmly into his phone.
“Signal that motherfucker batsman that if he does not get bowled out in the next twenty seconds, his wife will receive the photos we took of him with the shady lady from Romania.”
Disconnecting the call, he turned to his deputy from Thailand and said, “Who was the great man who said that if you’ve got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow?”
Chapter 73
THE ATTORNEY GENERAL waited on the phone for his bookie to register the bet. A minute later the man was back on the line.
“I have cleared it, sir. Your credit limit is back in place,” said the bookie. “What type of bet would you like to place? Head to Head, Top Runscorer, Next Man Out, Highest First Ten Overs, Race to Ten Runs or Innings/Match Runs?”
“Next Man Out,” said the Attorney General.
“Currently Sriram and Rajmohan are the tw
o batsmen at the wicket,” said the bookie, looking at his television screen.
“Sriram,” said the Attorney General.
“Odds are three to one,” said the bookie.
“One million,” said the Attorney General.
“Done,” said the bookie.
When the Attorney General had hung up, the bookie informed his boss of the additional bet. “Keep Nimboo Baba informed,” said Munna. “He will finance it.”
Chapter 74
THE BUNGALOW ON Narayan Dabholkar Road in tony South Mumbai had been built in the colonial style. It provided generous accommodation for whoever happened to be occupying the post of Chief Justice of the High Court of Bombay. The current resident was the Honorable Mrs. Justice Anjana Lal. Unfortunately, she was dead.
Her Honor had not appeared in her chambers on Sunday morning. She was one of the rare judges who worked for a couple of hours each Sunday in order to review the week’s cause list. It was common for Her Honor to arrive in her chambers by 10 a.m. and to spend the morning going through affidavits, petitions, replies, and appeals until noon, at which time she would proceed to her club for a weekly game of bridge accompanied by lunch.
Her court clerk, a plump, red-faced man, had tried to reach her on the phone but had failed. He had driven over to her bungalow because it had been so uncharacteristic of Her Honor to not inform him of any deviation from her printed schedule.
Upon reaching her official residence, he had found the guard at the gate in a deep slumber. No amount of prodding could stir him and the clerk had huffed his way into the house to find it empty except for the senior butler, busy preparing tea in the pantry. The clerk had asked the butler’s help in forcing open Her Honor’s bedroom door after repeated knocking had failed to elicit a response from within.
They had found her lying on the floor, dressed in loose, white, hand-woven cotton pajamas and top, the clothes that she usually wore in order to complete her morning yoga and meditation. Her body had been placed on the floor, her hair deliberately disheveled and her face blackened with charcoal. Tied tightly around her neck had been a yellow scarf. The court clerk had collapsed from shock upon seeing the corpse and it had been left to the butler to inform the Malabar Hill police station of events.
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