Twenty minutes after Vichare boarded his homebound train at CST, Russi was awaiting entry to the cricket ground at the Pavilion Club, where the launch event of the MCL’s tenth season was just underway. He had seen social media posts promising a ‘kick-off extravaganza’ that would be bigger than anything staged before. That didn’t mean a lot to him, as he hadn’t seen any of the previous editions. But he was astonished to see the large crowd of people jostling to get entry to the ground alongside him.
‘If so many people are turning up to do dheenga-masti at this event, one can only imagine the crowds that will be at the matches,’ thought Russi.
The MCL would indeed attract massive numbers to the stadiums over the six weeks of non-stop T20 cricket following the launch event. But the reason it had become a potent commercial force was the hundreds of millions of households that would religiously tune in to watch the cricket every evening on their televisions and mobile phones. No other sporting league in the world attracted so many devoted viewers, and so much advertising money in pursuit of their eyeballs. The standard of cricket was generally world-class, with India’s best talent and top international stars signing up to the party. The league’s gruelling schedule in the intense summer months was more than made up for by fat paycheques, outstanding hospitality and a bustling post-match party scene.
The queue moved efficiently, and once Russi’s entry pass, issued as Hormazd’s guest, was scrutinized by a couple of masked and gloved security men, he was in the Pavilion Club ground. Russi walked around like a wide-eyed kid on his first trip to a theme park. The ground was divided into areas allocated to each of the eight franchise teams, where owners, players and cheerleaders had let their hair down to the beat of a loud mix of Bollywood music, interspersed with sponsor messages.
‘Everyone seems to be living it up, and it isn’t even 7 p.m. yet,’ thought Russi.
The centre of the ground was a little quieter, with members of the media conducting interviews with cricketers and officials. Russi walked towards one of the larger pockets of media persons. They were being addressed by a slender woman in a shiny silver sari.
Navika Mahadevia’s long brown hair fluttered gently in the mild breeze as she spoke.
‘Absolutely, we are very confident of the team we have this season,’ she said.
‘With Rishi Girhotra in your team, it has added to the batting strength,’ said one reporter. ‘Do—’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Navika before the reporter got to the question. ‘We are so glad to have Rishi on board. He is amongst the best batters in the world and will further bolster our already solid top order.’
‘Do you feel like you now have too many batting choices?’ asked another reporter. ‘Who will sit it out when the final eleven is selected?’
‘You’re right,’ she said with a short, practised laugh. ‘We feel so blessed to have such a rich pool of talent, you know. On the final lineup—that’s for the selectors and captain to decide. As you are aware, I never comment on the selection of the playing eleven.’
‘We hear that the Justice Shankar Commission report is due soon. Would you comment on that?’
Heads turned towards the pear-shaped old gentleman who had asked the question.
‘I’m so sorry, everyone,’ said Navika abruptly. ‘But we need to wrap up this chat. Enjoy the party! Drinks are on the house, and remember to root for the Surat Smashers—we need all your love and support!’
The group dispersed nearly instantly, Navika along with them. ‘Not the first time she’s done a good vanishing act,’ thought Russi.
Moments later, a beefy man wearing a black suit, blacker shades and a tiny metallic communication earpiece appeared next to Russi. ‘Madam would like to see you,’ he said firmly into Russi’s ear.
Russi realized that he was not being made a request. The beefy man held Russi by the arm and pointed him in the direction of the clubhouse adjoining the ground.
‘Let me escort you there,’ he said.
The clubhouse was air-conditioned—a relief from the mugginess outside—but it was unusually dark for that time of the evening. Russi could not immediately recognize ‘madam’ perched on a huge high-backed scarlet sofa in the far corner. A couple of less comfortable cane chairs were placed next to her, and barely had Russi occupied one of them, when Navika spoke.
‘We haven’t met before, Mr Batliwala,’ she said. ‘My security staff tells me you are an ex-umpire and seem to have a lot of questions.’
As she completed her sentence, she signalled to the suited man standing guard beside them, who promptly faced away from them.
‘Your security staff is completely right about my professional antecedents. Twenty-three years at the national level, thank you,’ said Russi. ‘But they are wrong about my having a lot of questions.’
Navika’s right eyebrow rose ever so slightly.
‘I just have two questions, Navika madam, not many.’ Russi smiled. ‘One you didn’t answer outside, so let us leave that alone for now. But I hope you will answer the second.’
Navika sat back in the chair. ‘Go on,’ she said, her eyes focused piercingly on Russi.
‘Why did Vasu Langda call you the night that Shreya Ved was killed?’
Navika looked away immediately. ‘I don’t know whom or what you are talking about,’ she said. ‘Who exactly are you?’
‘Working with Mumbai Police,’ said Russi confidently. ‘I know that Vasu Langda worked for you and that you both spoke just hours before Shreya Ved was killed. If you don’t cooperate and tell me why he called you, I will recommend that you be brought to the station for questioning.’
‘For what? For talking on the phone?’ scoffed Navika.
‘For ordering a murder.’
Navika took a sip from the champagne flute in front of her. ‘Listen, mister … whoever you are … umpire–detective. You have no idea whom you’re messing around with.’
‘Oh, that I know very well, Miss Navika Mahadevia,’ said Russi. ‘I know I am talking to one of the most powerful people in the country. Who will stop at nothing to get their way. Who could kill a bright young woman in the prime of her life to prevent harm to the empire they have so carefully built over years.’
‘Utter nonsense,’ said Navika. ‘You’re saying I had that girl killed based on one phone call that just happened to be on the same day as her death?’
‘Ah, so now you agree there was a phone call between you and Vasu Langda,’ said Russi. ‘What did you speak about—if it was not about having Shreya killed?’
‘Why would I have her killed? Because she was going to print some report? Oh, come on! There are many ways of silencing such noisy vessels without getting blood on your hands,’ said Navika.
‘And what would those ways be, madam?’
‘You’re the so-called detective, aren’t you? Go figure it out! I have no more time for these frivolous insinuations.’ Navika took another sip of champagne and let out a cackle, as if something Russi had said had popped back into her mind. ‘Call me to the police station, huh—I’d love to see you try!’ Her voice was loud enough for the beefy security guard to turn his head back.
‘I can understand why that may seem ludicrous to people like you,’ said Russi. ‘Although I must tell you that others you know are being more cooperative with the investigation. That is no laughing matter.’
‘Others?’ shot back Navika, her high brows suddenly narrowing.
‘Your partners in this cricket business—I’m sure you know who I mean,’ said Russi. ‘Politicians, after all, must do what’s required to keep their image intact. Especially when a much-anticipated report from a credible investigation team is about to go public.’
Navika set her champagne flute forcefully down on the table. ‘They can go as public as they want. It is the media that controls what everyone sees. And the media is controlled by those with power.’
‘It is without doubt that you, madam, wield such power,’ said Russi.
‘Mr Batliwala, I believe you have asked what you wanted to and there is nothing further for me to say,’ said Navika. ‘Now, do you want to be seen out or will you see to that yourself?’
Russi chose to exit alone—he’d had enough chaperoning by Navika’s security staff for one evening.
The beefy suited man stood unmoved as Russi left the clubhouse, but he muttered something into his earpiece microphone as soon as the old umpire was out of sight. Once he got the confirmation he was waiting for, he turned to Navika.
‘Ma’am, he has left the premises,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Navika, taking the last sip of her champagne. ‘Now get me Choksi immediately. On our secure line. It’s urgent.’
‘Very silent today, boss. This investigation is getting complicated?’ asked Gopal as he drove past Flora Fountain.
‘Gopal, something does not seem correct,’ said Russi thoughtfully from the backseat.
‘But you had said that the police were close to making an arrest, boss,’ said Gopal.
‘They will. Tomorrow. The inspector sent me a message saying he has managed to deal with the politics,’ said Russi.
‘Now catching a murderer also has politics?’ asked Gopal with a disapproving cluck of the tongue.
‘Wherever there is money and power, there is politics, my dear chap,’ said Russi.
‘Also, lies,’ added Gopal. ‘No one seems like what they are, boss. All wearing a mask, all crooks in disguise. Something for the world to see and something else in reality. Remember the lady you had asked me to follow? She seemed so decent, leaving for office at 8 a.m. and returning home by 6 p.m. But that was only her first life. Her second life began once it was dark. Slipping out and meeting shady people in dark restaurants!’
‘You did good work, Gopal,’ said Russi.
‘Thank you, boss,’ said Gopal, blushing. ‘I’m happy to help you catch these criminals. Although the work you sent me on just now was not easy. The guy has such an ordinary face that I didn’t think anyone would have noticed or remembered him all these days later. Had he not kicked up a fuss that evening, I may have still been going from bar to bar in this area.’
Gopal manoeuvred the Wagon-R into a crowded bylane in Byculla. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a cyclist swerved onto the lane, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was right in front of the oncoming vehicle. Gopal turned his steering wheel sharply, narrowly missing the cyclist and miraculously avoiding pedestrians at the edge of the lane. But before he could gather his wits and slow down, he saw a huge double-decker BEST bus looming barely metres away from the car. Momentum was hurtling the Wagon-R forward, and the digits 44—the route number plastered across the back of the bus—got larger and larger as the car raced towards them uncontrolled.
Gopal slammed the brakes hard. ‘Hold on, boss!’ he screamed.
Two seconds later, the Wagon-R had come to a complete halt. Less than six inches separated the bonnet of the car from the back of the bus.
Gopal sat back in his seat and drew a huge breath of relief. ‘Thank God for power brakes,’ he said, looking back at his boss.
‘And for seatbelts,’ said Russi, pointing to the fully extended belt that was restraining him by the belly.
The pair only had a few seconds to ponder on their good fortune, before the honks of the cars behind them forced Gopal to get a move on. The bus had inched forward, and Gopal edged past it. Barely 20 metres ahead, he turned into an even smaller lane and switched off the engine.
‘This is the place, boss,’ he said, still breathless.
Russi looked out of the window and saw a large signboard outside a small hole of a place.
‘NEETA BAR & RESTAURANT’ flashed in neon green, red and blue.
‘So this is where Jayesh Acharya was between the time he met Shreya and before she was killed,’ said Russi, mopping his brow. ‘He said it was a Geeta or a Reeta, but turns out it was Neeta!’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Gopal. ‘And he was not drinking alone, as he told you. He had company.’
‘Chalo,’ said Russi, hauling himself out of the backseat. ‘Let’s find out whom he was with and what the boom-burada he kicked up was all about.’
Seventeen missed calls.
When Inspector Vichare finally checked his phone at 10 p.m., after a scrumptious Mughlai dinner with his wife, he knew there was some trouble.
Nine of the missed calls were from Lobo, and eight from Paswan of Koliwada Police.
He called his deputy back.
‘Yes Lobo, what toofaan has hit us nowuurbh?’ he asked, half-swallowing a tandoori belch that emerged towards the end of his question.
‘Definitely unexpected news, sir,’ said Lobo. ‘ASI Paswan called to say … to say …’
‘To say what, Lobo?’ asked Vichare impatiently.
‘That Vasu Langda is dead.’