“Simply repealing a discriminatory law has not changed the fact that members of these communities are still treated unfairly. The ones who manage to become educated and find employment usually try to dissociate themselves from anything that could link them to their own communities.”
Santosh turned very quiet. He limped over to the couch in the corner of his office, lay down, and shut his eyes.
“What are you thinking?” asked Nisha, slightly worried.
“Figuring out how to apologize to Hari and convince him to come back to Private India,” replied her boss softly.
Chapter 80
I AM SIPPING from my cup of freshly brewed coffee as I scan the morning newspaper. The body of an unidentified man was found inside the abandoned Shakti Mills premises in Lower Parel, reads the article.
The unidentified male victim, reportedly in his late twenties or early thirties, was found inside a disused tank of the erstwhile spinning and dyeing shed. This particular shed could be accessed directly from the main approach, Dr. E. Moses Road. Officers from the N. M. Joshi Marg police station are conducting the investigation.
Alas, Mr. Patel is not one of the trophies that I can publicly take credit for. For every act that happens onstage, some events must happen behind the scenes. This was a backstage event.
In fact, Mr. Patel was one of my first victims. It’s just that the incompetent cops did not find his body until several days later, hence the news item today.
Patel was very punctual, though. He had promised to be at Shakti Mills by seven o’clock in the evening and he was there a few minutes before that. I was waiting for him inside the shed, leaning against an old concrete tank that once must have contained dyes and pigments of all hues for fabric to be dipped in. He approached me hesitantly.
“Do you have it?” I asked.
“Do you have the money?” replied Patel.
I quickly opened the brown Manila envelope and showed him five neat bundles of one-thousand-rupee notes, a grand total of half a million.
Patel reached into his pocket and took out a 128GB USB flash drive. “It contains the plans and wiring of all the locations that we manage in Mumbai,” he said. “It also contains the passwords and master codes that allow remote access where such access is permitted.”
I wordlessly handed over the Manila envelope to him as I pocketed the flash drive.
“Don’t you want to verify the contents?” asked Patel.
“No,” I lied. “I trust you.”
He thanked me for the money and turned around, walking toward the exit. I attacked the moment that he had his back to me. The rock I held collided with the back of his head. The envelope containing the cash fell from his hands as he tumbled to the ground. He gasped for air as I bent over him and gripped my hands tightly around his neck.
“I don’t need to verify the contents because I have no intention of paying you,” I said sarcastically as I let go of his neck for a moment and pulled him up by his arms. He had been stunned by the ferocity of my initial attack and was babbling incoherently, pitifully pleading with me to spare his life.
I pulled him to the edge of the concrete tank that was filled with old rainwater. It was covered with a thick sludge owing to the abundant moss that had grown on the surface among the nasty-looking engine oil, turning to neon-green slime. Holding his head in my hands, I pushed his face into the murky water. Patel struggled valiantly and I allowed him to raise his head for a few quick gasps before forcing it back into the tank.
“Holding your breath?” I asked mockingly, obviously not expecting a reply. Patel’s respiratory system, in an attempt to protect itself, had initiated involuntary holding of breath but it was evident to me that water would soon enter his mouth, forcing his epiglottis to close over his airway. It was a matter of time before his body would shut itself down due to oxygen deprivation.
I suddenly felt him give a few violent jerks. Hypoxic convulsions. In a few seconds it was all over. I pulled him out and laid him on the ground in order to empty his pockets of his wallet, visiting-card case, kerchief, keys, and coins.
I looked at his visiting cards. Mr. Mayank Patel, Senior Engineer, Xilon Security Services. Pity that someone who brags about protecting hundreds of homes and establishments could not protect himself, I thought to myself as I quickly lifted him by his legs and tipped his corpse into the filthy slime of the tank.
Chapter 81
SANTOSH ANSWERED HIS phone immediately when he saw that the caller was Rupesh.
“What the fuck are you guys at Private India up to?” yelled Rupesh angrily. Santosh moved the phone some distance away from his ear and switched to speakerphone mode so that Nisha could also hear the conversation.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, Rupesh,” said Santosh truthfully.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were investigating the goddamn Attorney General of India?” Rupesh demanded. “Why must I get a kick in the nuts from the Home Minister with a suggestion that I should lay off?” Santosh could visualize Rupesh’s face, his lips red with tobacco, the spittle shooting forth from his mouth as he yelled.
Santosh shrugged. “I wouldn’t say he was investigated, as such …”
“Then what’s this I hear about you having illegally accessed his DNA records?” asked Rupesh.
“We had no idea that the hair on Ragini Sharma’s pillow would throw up a match. In previous crime scenes the hairs that we found could not be used for DNA extraction,” Santosh answered calmly. “It was a matter of chance that our database search produced a match with the hair found at Ragini Sharma’s home. It happened to be the DNA of a sperm donor at an IVF clinic. That donor turned out to be the Attorney General. His sequence was on the clinic’s computer because he and his wife had been trying to have a baby through the IVF route. It’s not like we specifically went out looking to pin the blame on him.”
“You should have informed me of all developments,” insisted Rupesh. “The political shit from above lands on me, not you!”
“Since we are talking, Rupesh,” said Santosh gently, “there is something else that you should know.”
“What?” asked Rupesh, cooling down.
“You arranged for us to obtain a list of all case files that Mrs. Justice Anjana Lal had either delivered orders in or partially heard. You remember?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Well, it seems that one of the cases she had been hearing pertained to a case of corruption brought against the twelve trustees of a charitable foundation called the Sir Jimmy Mehta Trust.”
“And?” asked Rupesh, curious now.
“The foundation was established by a wealthy Parsi banker. It ran several charitable projects including a children’s orphanage in Mumbai. Unfortunately, the trustees were accused of siphoning off a substantial part of the endowment.”
Santosh could see Nisha scribbling on a piece of paper. She passed it to Santosh. It read, AG was chief trustee.
“What does that have to do with our case?” asked Rupesh, faking ignorance.
“One of the twelve trustees was the Attorney General. In fact, he was the chief trustee in later days. The case was pending in Justice Anjana Lal’s court and if she had found the trustees guilty, such a ruling would have invalidated his appointment to the office of the country’s highest law officer.”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. Rupesh was figuring out how he would get himself out of the mess they had created by their investigation.
“Are you still there?” asked Santosh, knowing full well that Rupesh was still on the phone.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“What do you suggest that I should do in this matter?” asked Santosh innocently.
“Give me some time to think it over,” replied Rupesh. Santosh knew that he meant: Let me discuss the matter with my political masters.
Chapter 82
“THE YOGA INSTRUCTOR,” gasped Nisha, looking up from the computer on which PrivatePattern,
the organization’s analysis tool, had created several relationship maps.
“What?” asked Santosh.
“The yoga instructor who visited the judge’s home three times per week was also the instructor to Priyanka Talati and Lara Omprakash.”
“Interesting,” murmured Santosh, getting up from his chair and walking over to check the output on Nisha’s computer.
“Even more interesting,” said Nisha, “is the fact that our murdered journalist was scheduled to meet this same yoga instructor—Devika Gulati—as part of her investigation into people who work alongside celebrities.”
“Do you know where we can find her?”
“She has a yoga studio in Walkeshwar,” replied Nisha. “And there’s something else,” she added, reading an email from police HQ. “The overall build and clothing of the unidentified man at Shakti Mills matches with the description of the missing engineer from Xilon Security. Could this be our perp?”
“He’s not our perpetrator. Let them find out the extent of decomposition of the corpse,” replied Santosh. “I’m pretty certain that this engineer would have been killed before the other murders happened. He was used by the perp to obtain CCTV, security, and access details, and eliminated after he was no longer of any use.”
“Should I ask Hari to go to N. M. Joshi Marg police station and check the man’s belongings and crime-scene report?”
“Sure,” replied Santosh. “Speaking of Hari, how is he doing?”
“He’s come to work today after your chat with him yesterday,” said Nisha. “There’s still an uncomfortable silence between us, though. I’m feeling lousy that we allowed Rupesh to arrest him and subject him to the third degree.”
“I know what you mean,” said Santosh. “It will take a while for him to open up to me. In the meantime, please try to communicate with him. Ask Mubeen to help.”
“Sure, I’ll try.”
Chapter 83
DEVIKA GULATI RAN Yoga Sutra, a stylish studio in upmarket Walkeshwar.
Nisha parked outside, giving the building an appraising look. Under Mumbai’s property development rules, it was illegal to build within five hundred meters of the coastline. Yet Yoga Sutra was almost on the edge of the sea, no doubt with glorious views of Marine Drive and the Arabian Sea.
“So how did you swing that, eh?” said Nisha to herself, getting out of her car.
But she already knew the answer. In Mumbai any rule could be broken—as long as you had the right friends. A quick Google search had shown her what Devika Gulati looked like. And with those looks and that figure, she probably had no difficulty making friends.
Catty, Nisha, she thought. Catty. (But true.)
Not just one of Mumbai’s most exclusive areas, Walkeshwar was also surprisingly quiet. The governor lived here. So did several Mumbai billionaires. Even so, what little street noise there was disappeared as Nisha stepped into the serene inner sanctum of Yoga Sutra.
In the reception area, a large statue of Buddha had been adorned with flowers and Japanese incense, while faint strains of eastern meditative chants created a soothing vibe. Through tastefully frosted glass, Nisha could see the main studio, where women on yoga mats were making the traditional bridge pose. Urging them on, even more curvaceous in the flesh than she had been on Google Images, was Devika Gulati.
Nisha’s gaze traveled further. She’d been right about those amazing views.
“Devika’s class finishes in ten minutes,” smiled the receptionist. “I’ll inform her you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
She took a seat opposite a wood-paneled wall and studied autographed photographs of Devika with an assortment of celebrities—actors, musicians, authors, politicians, businessmen, and bureaucrats. Among the photographs were images of Lara Omprakash and Priyanka Talati. Reaching forward, Nisha picked up a Mumbai society magazine from a coffee table and began to flick through it, stopping when she came across a familiar face.
She almost didn’t recognize him without the expression of irritation on his face, and then it clicked. It was Aakash, “just Aakash,” brandishing a comb and a pair of scissors as though they were deadly weapons. According to the magazine he was Mumbai’s “Hot Shot Hair Guru,” with an “ever-expanding celebrity client list.”
So they’d fallen for it too, she thought, smiling. And then something occurred to her. Unless … what if he’d been lying to her and Santosh? What if he really did have a celebrity client list? And then she was dragged from her thoughts as the door to the main studio opened and yoga students began to leave.
Devika Gulati appeared. Seeing off the last of her pupils with a smile and clasped hands, she turned her attention to Nisha, and though her poise remained, the smile faded, and she became businesslike as she moved across reception to greet her guest. The two shook hands and Devika gave Nisha a deliberately appraising up-and-down look that ended with an almost imperceptible tilt of the nose, as though she … approved of Nisha.
“Sorry I kept you waiting,” Devika said politely, leading the way to a private office. She seemed to waft rather than move, Nisha noticed.
Devika settled into a patterned sofa that bore handwoven Hindu motifs on the cushions. She waved a hand at a slightly less comfortable-looking chair opposite and Nisha took it, suppressing a smile, knowing they were playing games here.
“So, how may I help you?” asked Devika. One arm was across the back of the sofa, and her legs were crossed at the knee. She was so … arranged.
“Mrs. Justice Anjana Lal,” began Nisha. “Were you with her on Sunday morning?”
“No. I visited her on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,” replied Devika. “She performed her yoga routine independently on the remaining days of the week.”
“Could you please tell me where you were on Sunday morning?”
“That’s easy. I returned on Sunday evening from Bangalore where I had gone to conduct a health and wellness seminar for a spa,” replied Devika. “My secretary will be happy to share my travel itinerary and ticket copies with you.”
“Did you know Priyanka Talati and Lara Omprakash?” asked Nisha, taking notes on her smartphone.
“Lara was a regular. I had known her for many years,” replied Devika. “Priyanka was a newbie. I had been assigned by her music company to help her shape up for a music video that she was getting ready to shoot. It’s terrible what happened to both ladies,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
“Where were you during the night that Priyanka Talati was killed?” asked Nisha. “Monday, between eleven p.m. and midnight?”
Devika stood, crossed to a desk and punched a number on the intercom. “Fiona, please check my diary and tell me what my schedule was on Monday evening,” she requested.
Within a few minutes the receptionist walked in with Devika’s diary. “You were attending the launch of the new spa at Hiranandani Gardens,” she said, leaving the diary with Devika and withdrawing.
“Ah, yes,” said Devika. “It was a dinner hosted by the owner of the Gordon Crest Hotel to celebrate the opening of their new spa. I am a consultant for the project so my presence was required.”
“Until what time were you there?”
“I left a little after midnight.”
“Did you go straight home?”
“No, I was with a friend and we stopped for a drink at the J. W. Marriott Hotel before he left me at my house.”
“May I know the name of your friend?” asked Nisha.
Devika smiled thinly. “Everyone knows his name. He is Nalin D’Souza, the Attorney General of India.”
Chapter 84
NISHA LEFT YOGA Sutra, her mind fizzing. Not only did she now know how Devika Gulati had secured such a prime piece of Mumbai real estate, but the name of the Attorney General had cropped up once again—surely too much of a coincidence?
As she reached her car her phone rang. It was Ajay calling from the BMC—Bombay Municipal Corporation—office.
“Hello, Nisha,” he said.
>
Her eyes went automatically to the steering wheel where the yellow scarf had been tied. Next she craned over her shoulder to check the back seat was empty. Satisfied there were no surprises in store, she clicked the central locking.
“Well,” she said, “if it isn’t my favorite municipal fixer. I was thinking about you just the other day …”
“In the shower, I hope.”
“Ajay,” she chided. “I’m a married woman. No, it was in the Charity Commission.”
“Oh, those bent bastards. Let me guess. Good looks and a winning smile got you nowhere?”
“It was cold, hard cash or nothing.”
“What if I were to tell you that my services come with a price too?”
She pulled the seatbelt across herself, clicking it into place. “I’d tell you to stop pushing your luck and tell me what you’ve got to tell me.”
“Okay. Are you ready for this? Your Lara Omprakash childbirth query. Now, it took a bit of digging because it turned out that Lara Omprakash is a stage name. Her real name was Jamuna Chopra.”
“Right …” said Nisha.
“And Jamuna Chopra did indeed have a child when she was just out of her teens. June twelfth, 1984.”
“You’re a genius,” said Nisha.
“I’m glad it’s been recognized at last.”
“What else? Who was the father?”
“Father unknown. Child’s name Aditi Chopra.”
“Oh?” said Nisha. “A girl?”
“Absolutely. Gender: female.”
“Okay. I wonder if you could—”
“Tell you if Aditi has married or died?”
She grinned. “You know me too well.”
“I’m wasted in this job, aren’t I? The answer’s no. Not under that name anyway.”
“Ajay, I think I love you,” she said.
“If only …” he sighed.
Private India: (Private 8) Page 18
