‘I realize you are a well-known cricket umpire, but this is a murder investigation, not a Duckworth–Lewis calculation!’
Inspector Vichare was annoyed at the interruption to his morning by the pear-shaped Parsi man from the night before.
Vichare’s day had started early and had been progressing as per plan, at least as far as tea intake was concerned, until that point. By 8 a.m. he had already downed three cups of his favourite drink—an adrak chai prepared by the missus at home, a piping hot cutting at CST railway station en route to work and another sickly sweet one served at his desk by the local tea-stall boy. The generous doses of sugar and caffeine had, at least temporarily, negated the effects of sleep deprivation and injected his mind with the alertness it needed for the first task of the day: reviewing Shanti Chambers’ CCTV footage from the evening before.
But now, just as he and Lobo were preparing to dive into the videos, Russi Batliwala had made his second uninvited appearance in eight hours.
‘You are right, Inspector Vichare,’ said Russi. ‘I was indeed one of Mumbai’s finest umpires, some would even say India’s best, but that would be too boastful of me to accept. Anyway, today I am here not with my umpire’s hat on but at the insistence of Justice Shankar, who worked closely with the deceased. He is still in shock from the events of last night and wanted Aziz Khan to be here—but you know what condition your fellow officer is in.’
‘So you work with the judge?’ interjected Lobo.
‘No, no, Sub-Inspector Lobo.’ Lobo blushed at his momentary promotion from constable to sub-inspector, even if it was only in the eyes of the old man. ‘I am merely someone who has been a fellow member of the cricket community for decades and has a lot of respect for the judge’s work. I happened to dine with him and Aziz Khan last night, which is perhaps why he asked for me after the tragic events that followed. If Shreya’s ghastly killing has anything to do with the cricket world, I may be able to help,’ said Russi.
He directed his attention towards only Lobo and spoke softly, as if he were about to share a big secret. ‘Also, did I hear you say something about CCTV footage? You know, I spent a good part of my twenty-plus years as an umpire watching video replays. If Russi Batliwala was the third umpire, then rest assured, no detail would be missed and the verdict would be 100 per cent correct.’
Lobo broke into a toothy grin. Vichare decided it was time to intervene.
‘At this point, Mr Batliwala, we cannot share any details with an outsider. We have only just begun our investigation and view everyone with suspicion,’ he said testily. ‘Including, if I may say so, you.’
‘So you must, Inspector,’ said Russi. ‘My good friend Diwakar says that is the first principle of excellent detection: make no assumptions, suspect everything. I may not be a detective of your stature and experience, but these are some of the things in my amateur capacity I have also learnt.’
‘Great, so now you are a reincarnation of Byomkesh Bakshi on top of everything else?’ asked Vichare, not quite sure how to rid himself of Russi.
‘Well, umpires with my experience have powers of observation and deduction under pressure that are not too different from those of the best detectives. But for now, Inspector saheb, I am just here to help a friend and offer my assistance as you need,’ said Russi.
This was why Vichare didn’t like investigations involving the powerful and connected. He wouldn’t be surprised if the retired judge had already called the commissioner to ensure the ‘right people’ were on the case—while his so-called well-wishers descended upon the police, supposedly to help. He looked at his watch, convinced that its hands were running faster than usual that morning, and let out a tired sigh. Russi saw this as a sign of the Inspector softening.
‘Okay then,’ said Vichare. ‘Out of respect for the honourable judge, I will allow your presence. But, let me be clear, this is not permission to do any digging around on the side.’
‘Out of the question, Inspector. I doubt any amateurs will be needed when the most capable professionals are at the helm of affairs,’ said Russi, beaming.
The blatant flattery wasn’t lost on Vichare, but it did get him to think more agreeably of Russi. ‘This ex-umpire may turn out to be of some help after all,’ he thought as he slurped the last of the tea in his cup.
‘Of course, you should share any inputs where relevant,’ said Vichare awkwardly, licking the tips of his moustache to mop up any beverage remnants. ‘Who, by the way, is this Diwakar?’
‘An old friend,’ said Russi. ‘He started like me, a humble Ranji Trophy cricket umpire, but later became like you, a successful policeman with Bengaluru Police. Always full of wisdom for me on detective methods whenever we chat.’
Lobo cleared his throat to remind his boss of the task at hand. ‘Sir, shall we move to the video room?’ he offered gently.
‘Yes, of course, Lobo. But before that get me another tea, will you? Little less sugar, please, this time. Also, offer Mr Batliwala any chai-coffee-thanda. We have a busy day ahead.’
Ten minutes later, equipped with their drinks—Vichare was pleased to see Russi opting for the sweet tea like him—the trio began the arduous task of watching the CCTV recordings from the day before. The video had been captured by the solitary camera at the entrance of the Commission’s office.
‘There is no other camera—not inside the office, not at the back door that exits on to the lane behind and not in the building lobby,’ said Lobo. ‘Unfortunately, the picture quality is not great. Seems like a cheap camera not really meant to work in the dim lighting in that corridor. But I hope it’s good enough for our purpose. Let’s see.’
Lobo pressed ‘enter’ on the laptop and all eyes moved to the TV screen fixed to the wall. The footage did have a grainy quality, but they had no difficulty in identifying the first entrant to the office at 2.19 p.m. The slender, dusky-complexioned figure wore blue jeans and a black top, and her long, dark hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, revealing a soft jawline and almond-shaped eyes. She spent the next couple of minutes in the corridor rummaging through the brown laptop bag slung over her shoulder, and upon finding what looked like a large key, she proceeded out of view. The camera’s viewing angle did not extend till the door, but what the trio had just seen was Shreya Ved walking purposefully into the Commission’s office.
Never to walk out again.
Nothing happened for the next few hours of the recording. Then came the first surprise. At 6.33 p.m., a wiry man wearing a wrinkled T-shirt appeared. He strode decisively towards the office, holding a motorcycle helmet under a hairy arm. His floppy hair seemed to have fallen out of place and, even in the dim light, his receding hairline was visible above his long face.
‘That’s Jayesh Acharya—Shreya’s husband!’ exclaimed Lobo.
‘Now what is he doing in the office?’ asked Vichare. ‘Did he inform us last night that he visited Shreya earlier in the evening?’
‘No, sir, he didn’t,’ replied Lobo. ‘He looked a bit dazed when he arrived, and once he heard the news, he spent the rest of the night bawling. But not a word about having been there just hours before.’
‘He doesn’t appear to have been a welcome visitor,’ said Russi as they watched Jayesh stand in the corridor for nearly five minutes without being admitted into the office. He paced up and down, made a phone call and then finally marched off camera towards the office door. The timestamp showed 6.37 p.m.
Forty-six minutes later, at 7.23 p.m., Jayesh was seen in the corridor again, leaving the office. The man who had entered with energy departed slowly, shoulders stooped.
‘Whatever he came for, looks like he didn’t get it,’ said Vichare.
It was another three-quarters of an hour later that the office received its next visitor. A woman with a triangular face, short, curly hair and a huge red bindi walked down the corridor. She was dressed in a printed kurti and harem pants. Unlike her predecessor, she made an undramatic entry to the office at 8.09 p.m.
Her visit didn’t last very long, and she was seen leaving the office just before half-past the hour.
‘Find out who this woman is, Lobo,’ said Vichare, eyes still transfixed on the screen although now there was nothing to see but the empty corridor.
Lobo fast-forwarded the footage till something changed on screen, about an hour and a quarter later. At 9.46 p.m. came a peculiarly dressed man. His shabby ash-coloured coat fit poorly—lengthwise, it drooped all the way to his knees, while the one visible sleeve was patched at the elbow and ended well short of his wristwatch. His neck and face were tightly wrapped in a black muffler, while his hair—the little bit that was visible below the newsboy cap—was stark white and mat-like. He had a pronounced limp but shuffled briskly down the corridor as if to hide it. Like a hobbling scarecrow—that was the first thought that crossed Russi’s mind as he watched the dishevelled figure make his way towards the office. He hung around for a while in the corridor, presumably awaiting entry to the office, and then shuffled off camera inside.
‘Tujhya nanachi taang! Unless Shreya had organized a fancy-dress party at the office, can we say we’ve just seen our first suspicious visitor?’ asked Vichare.
‘Yes, Inspector, very odd whoever this fellow is,’ replied Russi. ‘Let’s see when he comes out.’
‘I’m sure it will be super-fast,’ declared Vichare. ‘He does not look like the kind of company Shreya would keep for very long.’
The trio continued to stare at the screen in anticipation of the limping man’s exit. Lobo fast-forwarded the video and paused at 10.20 p.m. when some activity took place. It wasn’t the departure they were expecting, but instead a new arrival.
A young well-built man in a polo shirt and cap, both in red and yellow—a uniform of some sort—entered. He wore large black sunglasses and a cloth face mask and held two flat square-shaped cardboard boxes in tattooed arms.
Vichare got up and moved closer to the screen, squinting at the frozen image.
‘Pizza delivery man!’ he announced, proud of his discovery. ‘The boxes have the logo of the Pizza Oven chain.’
‘So Shreya ordered pizzas for herself and her scruffy visitor?’ asked Russi.
The pizza delivery man hung around for a couple of minutes waiting to be let in. He stepped backwards into the corridor, in apparent contemplation of what to do next. A minute later the decision was made. He made a brief phone call, after which he turned back and left.
‘She ordered a pizza but then didn’t accept the delivery,’ said Lobo, scratching his chin.
‘Or she couldn’t accept the delivery,’ said Russi gravely.
All three men heaved a collective sigh. Lobo paused the video and scratched the closely cropped hair at the back of his head nervously. Vichare leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, absently chewing on the right tip of his moustache. Russi stared at the screen, wondering what must have happened behind the closed door.
‘Let me fast-forward the video,’ said Lobo.
10.30 p.m. No sign of the limping man departing. 10.45 p.m. Nothing. 11 p.m. Still nothing.
At 11.15 p.m., the tall, lithe figure of Aziz Khan appeared. He walked slowly down the corridor and then vanished into the office.
‘What horror he must have experienced,’ thought Vichare, recalling his own reaction when he saw Shreya Ved’s bloody dead body.
Thereafter, the video told a story its audience already knew. Vichare, Lobo and the ambulance boys rushed in around 11.50 p.m. The forensic team reached at midnight, Shankar at 12.11 a.m. and Jayesh made his second appearance of the night at 12.16 a.m. The last arrival was Russi, at 12.40 a.m., roughly the same time that forensics wrapped up their work, and Shreya’s body was whisked away on a stretcher. At 12.50 a.m., the two policemen were back in the corridor just before they closed the scene of the crime from the glare of the media.
‘So … what do we know?’ asked Vichare, stretching as if he had just woken from a comfortable nap.
‘Shreya was alive at 9 p.m. because that’s when she messaged Aziz,’ said Lobo immediately, like an eager student responding to his teacher’s question. ‘We can also say that she was killed some time before 11.15 p.m., when Aziz found her body.’
‘Correct,’ declared Vichare. ‘And the limping man arrived at 9.46. We didn’t see him leave so he must have exited through the back door. Could have been any time before 11.15 p.m. A long enough window to bash Shreya’s head in.’
‘We will put out the screen grabs of this fellow immediately across all our stations,’ said Lobo.
‘Good, Lobo. Someone who looks like that can’t be hard to find,’ said Vichare right as his stomach let out a loud growl. ‘Too much tea on an empty tummy. Shall we get some snacks then? The food stall next door is world-famous for its vada pav, one of the best in Mumbai. Recommended for all times of day. Let’s call for that with some more chai. Mr Batliwala?’
Russi sat statue-like in his chair, immersed in thought.
‘Mr Batliwala?’ Vichare pressed.
‘Ah, yes, Inspector,’ said Russi as if he had suddenly unfrozen. ‘You are, of course, correct. This limping man is of prime importance. There is, however, something I don’t quite understand. Shreya messaged Aziz at 9 p.m., asking him to come to the office urgently. I saw him leave the Pavilion Club soon after, perhaps at around 9.15. Then why did Aziz Khan, who had his own car parked at the club, reach the office only by 11.15 p.m.? Two hours to cover a distance of three kilometres on an empty stretch of road. A little odd, no?’
Vichare and Lobo stared at each other.
‘Then there are the matters of why Jayesh Acharya hid his visit of just a few hours before, what brought the woman in the red bindi to the office on a weekend and why the pizza delivery man was wearing sunglasses at night,’ said Russi.
The two policemen were taken by surprise by the old man’s questions. His claims of having sharp observation skills, honed over years of umpiring, may actually have had some substance behind them.
‘But, undoubtedly, it would be best to think of all these on a full stomach,’ said Russi cheerily. ‘I’ll go with the vada pav. Your recommendation, Inspector saheb, will no doubt be spot on, once again.’
Two mighty vada pavs later, Russi stepped out of Dhobi Talao Police Station into the searing noon sun and the street’s noisy chaos. He began sweating almost immediately and damp patches appeared on his white short-sleeved cotton shirt. Thankfully, Russi had no need to get mixed up with one of those erratic taxi apps. Today, he had Gopal to ferry him around.
Gopal had driven Russi for a decade, trading his black-and-yellow taxi for full-time employment with the retired umpire. His salary was perhaps a little less than what he could make in a good month as a cabbie, but he would never dream of going back. The working hours were far more reasonable here and the air-conditioned Wagon-R more comfortable than the old Fiat kaali-peeli he used to drive. But most important of all, his ‘Russi boss’ gave him something that a taxi driver from UP rarely finds on the streets of Mumbai: a sense of belonging.
‘Russi boss, here!’ called out Gopal as he veered the car out of an illegal parking spot just outside the station.
‘Thank goodness you were nearby, Gopal,’ said Russi as he hopped into the backseat of the momentarily stationary vehicle. ‘Two more minutes and I would have melted like a ball of butter. Not to mention my eardrums, which were being abused by the non-stop honking that our dear city cannot live without. Put the A/C on full blast and let’s get out of here.’
‘As you say, boss,’ said Gopal, turning the air conditioning knob and slamming the accelerator pedal with equal vigour. ‘Are we heading back home?’
‘Only after we make one stop, near Churchgate,’ said Russi. ‘We must find out why anyone would want Shreya Ved dead, and there’s only one person who can tell us that.’