Shanti Chambers at midnight was a hive of activity, a far cry from the peaceful near-empty building it had been just a few hours before. The narrow lobby still only had the solitary dim light bulb, but the passageway to the ground floor offices was now brightly lit by fluorescent wall tube lights. Yellow tape drawn across the corridor emphatically confirmed that this was a crime scene. Two policemen stood outside a heavy brown door that was fixed with a metal plate bearing the name of the office it opened into: Enquiry Commission into Cricket Corruption.
The forensic crew, clad in protective gear, had begun surveying their workplace for the night. The first room by the main door was a boxy antechamber big enough to accommodate only a floor mat, an umbrella stand and a small wooden chair, presumably for a visitor or security guard. This led to a larger square-shaped office area with an enclosed cabin in its far corner. The office was populated by three desks and chairs, and perhaps twice as many cabinets, each chock full of files and papers. The space was not huge, but the furniture was light and an open area between the workstations ensured the room didn’t feel congested. It was on this vacant part of the floor that the body of thirty-two-year-old Shreya Ved lay, sprawled in a pool of blood.
‘Head smashed in, sir,’ declared Constable Neil Lobo, the younger of the two policemen standing outside the office door. He shook his head solemnly as he recalled the image of the gory corpse he had seen just a few minutes earlier inside the office. ‘The tall bronze trophy was most likely used. It was out of place and appeared like it had been wiped clean. Of course, we have to wait for forensics to confirm that. Her laptop and phone have also been smashed. Not sure we will be able to recover much from them.’
Lobo nervously bounced his slim frame on his toes, even as his large brown eyes focused keenly on his boss standing beside him.
Inspector Vinayak Vichare adjusted the buckle of his belt so that it sat on top of his protruding belly, and then rested his weight back against the wall. He lit a cigarette and took a long, tired drag.
Vichare had seen much more violent crime than his junior colleague, but each new occurrence shook him. What makes a human being capable of taking the life of another? What drives one to such intense brutality? What must have gone through the perpetrator’s mind just before the act? Every murder made him ask these questions. But he rarely had the chance to reflect on them because another more urgent question always took precedence.
Who did it?
‘Whoever did it just walked in and walked out. There’s no sign of forced entry,’ said Vichare, blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‘Now, the person you said found the body—what was his name again?’
‘Aziz Khan,’ replied Lobo immediately. ‘Colleague of the victim in this enquiry committee … or whatever it is that’s going on here. But outside of that he is also a policeman. A DSP in the CBI. Very quiet right now—must be in shock. But he did say he can talk when we want. I asked him to wait in the cabin inside.’
‘CBI, huh? And working on a cricket report? Nasheebwala!’ said Vichare. ‘Good to know that while we spend our nights patrolling the streets to keep Mumbai safe, at least some other policemen are getting the critical assignments.’ As he completed his sentence, Vichare’s belt flipped itself back below his belly like a switch, as if in acknowledgement of its owner’s scorn. ‘Anyway, chalo, let us find out what DSP Aziz Khan, CBI, has to say,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
‘Where is Aziz? Is he here? I came as soon as he messaged. And Shreya? I must see her. Where is she?’
The barrage of breathless questions stopped Vichare and Lobo in their tracks, just as they were heading back into the office. The new arrival was a slender, bespectacled man with thinning hair, dressed in pyjamas and a hastily slapped-on dressing gown, car keys and mobile phone in hand. His face was paler than the white light in the corridor.
‘I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. My name is—’
‘Justice Sundaram Shankar, of course,’ interjected Vichare. ‘I wish we’d met in better circumstances. Myself Inspector Vinayak Vichare from Dhobi Talao Police Station. We responded to DSP Khan’s call. He is inside the office at present, understandably in shock. As for Shreya Madam, she is—I mean her body is—still on the floor where it was found. Forensics are at work right now, so it may take a while before you can see her.’
Whatever colour remained on Shankar’s face vanished, and in that instant, his knees buckled. Had Lobo not reached out and grabbed him as he folded, he would have thudded squarely onto the passageway floor.
‘Let me bring you to a chair, sir,’ said Lobo to Shankar, struggling into the anteroom under the weight of the half-collapsed judge.
‘Water for Judge saheb. Now!’ yelled Vichare, although it was not clear at whom the instruction was directed. One of the many ambulance staffers who had brought in a stretcher for the dead body heeded his call and fetched a bottle of water.
Vichare stepped out of the office door again and let out a long sigh. This was supposed to be a routine late shift, he thought to himself, and now at well past midnight, he was dealing with a young woman slaughtered in her office, an old man who had broken down at the news—and the prospect of a high-profile investigation, given what the victim and her office were up to. He swivelled on his axis, determined to have a chat with Aziz Khan and then call it a night. Tomorrow morning, after a boiling hot cutting chai and a cigarette, he would begin his inquiries.
‘Inspector Vichare?’
Now who is it, thought Vichare.
A wiry man with a long face and hair combed forward to cover his receding hairline was standing at the door, motorcycle helmet tucked under his exceptionally hirsute arm.
‘A policeman called and asked me to come here urgently, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’m Jayesh.’
Vichare licked the right end of his moustache, his eyes blank.
‘Jayesh Acharya,’ said the man. ‘Shreya Ved’s husband. I hope everything is okay?’
‘She messaged you to come here, but when you got here you found that she was …’
Inspector Vichare had joined Aziz Khan in the private cabin at the far corner of the Commission’s office. It was clear that the cabin belonged to Justice Shankar—photographs and certificates of his achievements adorned the wall. Aziz was seated on one of the visitors’ armchairs and Vichare occupied the other one beside him.
‘Dead. Yes, she was dead, Inspector,’ said Aziz. ‘There was a pool of blood around her head. No pulse, no breath. Nothing. She was gone.’
His face was like stone and the words matter-of-fact, but the quiver in his voice told of the horror he had just experienced.
‘Was there anything else you noticed that was odd?’ asked Vichare.
‘Well, her laptop and phone on the table were badly damaged, and …’ Aziz hesitated for a moment. ‘That was it. I couldn’t see any signs of a break-in or a robbery.’
‘Was it usual for her to work so late on a Sunday night and call for a meeting at this hour?’ asked Vichare.
‘Shreya worked late quite often, and sometimes on weekends,’ said Aziz. ‘But no, it was not usual for her to ask to meet at short notice so late at night. I don’t know why. I really don’t know why …’
His voice trailed off as he lowered his face into his palms.
Vichare had his next question ready but decided to allow Aziz the minute he evidently needed. He also thought it wiser not to be too pushy with a CBI officer, that too one senior in rank to him and working on a plum assignment.
‘No problem, sir. This is a difficult time. We can do this later,’ said Vichare, shuffling forward in his chair as if to rise.
‘No, it’s all right. I’m fine,’ said Aziz, looking up again. He cleared his throat and continued. ‘Our official working days here are Monday to Friday, though we work Saturdays whenever the enquiry demands that.’
‘When you say “we”, whom are you referring to?’ asked Vichare.
‘Four people work here,’ said Aziz. ‘Justice Shankar heads the Commission enquiring into match-fixing, as you know. I am on deputation from the CBI for the criminal investigation, and Shreya is a lawyer by training and a full-time investigator on the team. And finally, Tushar, our admin manager who takes care of files and documents. He has been on leave for three weeks for his sister’s wedding in Jalna and will only be returning next week.’
‘Besides the four of you, does anyone else have access to the office?’ persisted Vichare.
‘The whole office is swept and mopped once a day by the building cleaner, but that is always when one of us is in, and never on weekends,’ said Aziz. ‘Only the four of us have … had keys for the front door you entered through. The back door is kind of an emergency exit.’
‘Back door?’ asked Vichare.
‘Yes, that one, near the coffee machine,’ said Aziz, pointing to a heavy grey metallic door at the other end of the main office area. ‘It opens on to the lane behind the building. You can use it to get out of the office, but not to enter from the outside.’
‘I see,’ said Vichare, though he couldn’t actually see the door from where he sat. ‘So that means the killer must have entered through the main door. Anyway, it’s late, sir, and it has been a terrible, tragic night. We will come to you again in due time for more of your help once the investigation progresses. For now, just one last question … if I may?’
‘Go ahead,’ replied Aziz.
‘You conduct very sensitive work for the Commission, bringing all these match-fixing rascals to justice,’ said Vichare. ‘I saw on TV a few weeks ago that you had some bade log, top-level names, on your radar and were soon going to be filing your final report. Could this have ruffled any feathers? I mean, any powerful enemies who may have wanted to silence the voice of this Commission?’
‘Enemies? We have made more than we can count, Inspector,’ said Aziz. ‘As you know well, this is not the first enquiry into match-fixing in India. There have probably been half a dozen enquiries before this. But most of them did not lead very far. One, because they stopped short of going after the big guns—the nexus of masterminds, be it politicians, influential tycoons or top cricketers. Whether there was pressure on them or they simply didn’t care enough to go deeper, I don’t know. And two, they operated more like interview panels than proper investigative committees: Getting a bunch of people to record statements and trying to piece together a story based on that, rather than actually going on the ground, first-hand, into the muck of things, uncovering evidence, establishing money trails, developing informants, building a legal case against suspects. You know … how sophisticated organized crime should be investigated.’
Aziz paused to take a sip of water. Vichare wondered whether that would douse the fire he had heard in his fellow cop’s voice.
‘Justice Shankar was determined to be different on both counts,’ continued Aziz. ‘He always says we are here to deliver justice, not publish a report. We have operated with that motivation for the last eighteen months, and that’s why we have got closer than any previous committees. Shreya was at the centre of it, making many breakthroughs and tying up many loose ends. So yes, we have enemies. She has … she had enemies.’
Vichare rose to his feet. ‘Sir, I apologize again for keeping you so long,’ he said. ‘For now, I can only offer you my words of condolence, but be assured that Mumbai Police will give this case the highest priority. Meanwhile, allow one of my men to see you home so you can get some rest. I must now attend to the other two upset gentlemen sitting outside.’
Outside the cabin, in the main office area, a white sheet had been draped over the corpse, which was transferred onto a stretcher soon to be sent for an autopsy. Forensics had done what they needed to and were packing away their vials, swabs and cameras. Vichare walked past them to the anteroom, where Jayesh Acharya, kneeling on the floor, was weeping uncontrollably.
‘How? How? How could this happen? Why Shreya?’ he sobbed before choking on his tears.
Shankar was sitting on the only chair in the little room, his face less pale than when Vichare had last seen him. But his eyes stared vacantly into the distance and his mouth hung open.
‘Frozen in shock,’ thought Vichare. The shock of seeing the dead body of someone close to you with no warning given before and no explanation available after. Vichare recognized the expression—he had seen it far too many times for his liking.
Standing next to Shankar was a pear-shaped man with a neat tuft of hair covering a little bald patch. He was patting the judge’s shoulder gently with his pudgy hand. Curious as to who the new arrival was but aware that the anteroom couldn’t comfortably accommodate four people for much longer, Vichare decided to leave the office and have his questions answered by Lobo outside.
‘Not sure who exactly he is, sir, but Justice Shankar called for him,’ said Lobo, reading his boss’s mind as soon as he saw him in the corridor. ‘He said his name is Russi Batliwala. Quite a curious fellow, looking around the place and asking a lot of questions. Of course, I didn’t let him anywhere near the body or say anything I shouldn’t. He was apparently having dinner with Justice Shankar and DSP Khan right before this at the Pavilion Club. He has offered to drop the judge back home now.’
‘Okay, let’s clear the area and call it a night,’ said Vichare impatiently. ‘I don’t want anyone khaali-phukat poking their noses around here.’
‘Speaking of people poking their noses, sir …’ said Lobo hesitatingly.
‘Yes … what is it?’ asked Vichare, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
‘There are a few media people here already,’ said Lobo. ‘I have not let them past the building gate and told them we aren’t going to be making any statement. But they already know there’s been a murder here and possibly the identity of the victim as well.’
‘Deva re! These media fellows can sniff out a story at any time of day or night, and the more sensational it is, the faster they get to it. At least this time we got here before they did,’ said Vichare sardonically. ‘Lobo, you and I can push through the crowd of presswalas, but these people inside are in no shape to face cameras after what they have just been through. We need to get them out from the back. There is another exit from the office to the lane behind—I know where it is.’
While the police were cordoning off Shanti Chambers in the dead of night, Navika Mahadevia had perched herself on the large mahogany swing in the balcony of her Cuffe Parade penthouse, at Mumbai’s southernmost tip. Before her lay the vast expanse of the Arabian Sea, its unbroken inkiness merging with the black unlit night sky.
Navika placed a lit Brazilian cigar between her lips and gently breathed in. She closed her eyes, her thin eyelids enveloped by heavy dark circles. The serene sea breeze caressing her face and the soothing sound of waves rhythmically brushing the shore brought her a rare feeling of peace.
Not for long, though.
Her buzzing phone and its blinking blue light ended the brief calm. It was a message from him again.
Navika blew out a large cloud of smoke as she read the first line.
‘The job is done.’