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Trained to work in a scientific and methodical manner, Mubeen retorted, “Let me get the photos done first. I’ll move her as soon as I have documented her position.”
“You will do as I ask,” replied Santosh sternly. “I really don’t care what sequence you have planned … tell me what’s on that piece of paper, hmm … donkey?” It was a meant to be a question but sounded like a derogatory remark. Santosh was an obsessive–compulsive pain in the ass, but he had never used disparaging terms toward colleagues in the past.
Feeling irritated, Mubeen bent over in order to examine the paper that Santosh was pointing to. “It has been taped to a safety pin and the pin has been fastened to her pajamas.”
“Can you discern if there is anything printed or written on the paper?” asked Santosh, the urgency in his voice palpable to all.
“It seems like a picture … an image of an animal’s tail,” replied Mubeen, gently lifting the paper at the corner with his forceps so that he could look at the side facing the floor.
“Precisely!” exclaimed Santosh triumphantly. “That image isn’t just any animal’s tail. It’s the tail of a donkey. As a kid, did you ever play pin the tail on the donkey?”
Chapter 75
DID YOU EVER play pin the tail on the donkey? It’s rather common at children’s birthday parties. A picture of a donkey with its tail missing is taped to a wall at a height that can easily be reached by the kids. Each child is blindfolded turn by turn and handed a paper tail with a pushpin poked through it. The blindfolded child is then spun around until disoriented and left free to make their way to the wall and pin the tail on the donkey. Interesting game, isn’t it? I never played it as a child but decided to play it as an adult this morning.
Getting into the judge’s house was child’s play. They leave a single guard at the gate to provide security for a colonial mansion! Usually the guard is fast asleep by the early-morning hours. Placing a chloroform-soaked kerchief over his nose required no effort at all on my part. He was out for the count within a few seconds.
The judge’s downfall was her precise routine. It was common knowledge that she was an early riser and woke each morning at precisely 6 a.m. to complete a one-hour schedule of yoga and meditation. She spent the next hour reading legal briefs until 8 a.m., when her butler would bring her the newspapers along with her tea. By 9:30 a.m. she would be showered and ready to step into the official car that would take her to the High Court in the old Fort district of Mumbai. Anyone observing the judge’s schedule would know that she was at her most vulnerable at 5 a.m. when the house was entirely devoid of staff.
The seventh avatar of Durga is Kaalratri. She has a dark complexion and frizzy hair, and in one of her hands holds a bunch of iron thorns. She is depicted as seated on a donkey, hence my pin-the-tail joke! In any case, Her Ladyship was devoid of any intellect and had simply risen through the ranks because of her influential network of friends. If you ask me, she was nothing more than a donkey herself.
Chapter 76
“WASN’T JUSTICE ANJANA Lal married?” asked Santosh.
“Yes, but her husband and daughter were in New Delhi attending a wedding in the extended family,” replied Rupesh.
“So it’s possible that the perp has been keeping track of the family and chose a day when the judge would be alone at home,” reasoned Santosh. “Our strangler also knew when Bhavna Choksi’s boyfriend was out of India.”
“The killer stalks the targets beforehand?” asked Nisha. “Or was it simply someone who knew the judge?”
“The butler—what do we know about him?” queried Santosh.
“He’s a permanent fixture here,” replied Nisha. “He is the chief caretaker of the bungalow and has been attached to the property for over twenty-five years. He personally takes care of every Chief Justice who occupies this residence. Apparently he has served seventeen during this period. He has a staff of ten—including a cook and several gardeners—serving under him.”
“Any visitors either yesterday or today that we know about?”
“I spoke with the butler,” replied Nisha. “The judge was feeling slightly under the weather yesterday and her GP had dropped in to see her in the evening. I have obtained his name as well as the address of his clinic.”
“Anyone else?”
“The judge was very particular about her yoga sessions in the mornings. Usually her teacher came in at six a.m. three days of the week. We have no idea whether her instructor came in today or not,” said Nisha.
“What about her cases?” asked Santosh, turning to Rupesh. “Do we know which were currently being decided by the judge?”
“I have asked for a full list from her clerk,” Rupesh replied. “She was a tough judge and showed little leniency in her pronouncements. It’s possible that she may have created a few enemies along the way.”
“I would suggest that we should look at not only the pending cases but also recent judgments delivered by her,” said Santosh. “Someone who felt wronged could have done this.”
“Sure,” replied Rupesh. “I’ll put someone from the High Court Registrar’s office on to compiling the information.” He took leave of the Private India team and got into his Jeep. Instead of going to HQ, he headed toward Arthur Road Jail, also known as Mumbai Central Prison.
Mumbai’s largest and oldest prison, it was built in 1926 to occupy around two acres of land in the congested area between Mahalaxmi and Chinchpokli railway stations. The prison was originally designed to accommodate eight hundred prisoners, but densely packed with inmates the average population at any given time exceeded two thousand. Cells designed to house fifty prisoners were crammed with two hundred each. Inmates were forced to sleep in awkward positions on lice-infested blankets and the result was a high rate of tuberculosis among the prison population. Arthur Road was India’s most feared jail because of the notorious cruelty of its overseers. While petty criminals were routinely mistreated, incarcerated members of crime syndicates were able to bribe guards and officers and even remotely manage their underworld activities from within. Arthur Road was nothing short of hell on earth.
Rupesh entered the cell that held Hari Padhi in solitary confinement. He was lying semi-comatose on a moth-infested blanket. Rupesh kneeled down near him, yanked him up by his hair, and whispered into his ear, “You got lucky, thuggee boy … a murder happened while you were enjoying police hospitality.”
Exhausted and terrified, Hari nodded mutely, staring at Rupesh with tired—almost lifeless—eyes.
“I’m letting you go, but you should know that I can have you back here in no time. And, with your background, no one will believe you—including that pretty little thing you are fucking on the side. Do you understand?” asked Rupesh.
