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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 two 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.
The sub-inspector had arrived within five minutes of the phone call, given that the crime involved a high-ranking dignitary of Mumbai. Seeing the yellow garrote, he had phoned Rupesh and awaited his arrival before allowing his men to touch anything. Rupesh had arrived a few minutes before Santosh, Nisha, and Mubeen.
Santosh circled the body like a sniffer hound. It didn’t help because it disturbed Mubeen, who was attempting to take high-resolution photos of the late judge.
“See her hands,” Santosh said to Rupesh excitedly. “She has been made to hold a tangle of barbed wire.”
Before Rupesh could respond, Santosh used his cane to point to a small piece of paper sticking out from underneath the corpse. “Roll her over slightly and check that,” he instructed Mubeen.
