The legal guardian of the rights of 1.2 billion Indians and occupying a constitutionally mandated rank devised to keep him at one remove from the contemptible politics of New Delhi, the Attorney General was known to be an inexhaustible worker with an incredible memory for facts, a complete mastery of the law, and an ability to direct senior judges effortlessly.
He was also a master at negotiating his way through the corridors of power. Having arrived in New Delhi as an outsider, he had taken to the country’s political capital like a fish to water. Realizing quickly that one often had to play the man rather than the ball, he had become good friends with the Prime Minister’s political advisor. And having achieved that, seemingly there was nothing and no one that the Attorney General could not maneuver in New Delhi and beyond.
He crossed the plaza, headed to his white Ambassador car bearing a red beacon on the roof, and asked his driver to take him to his chambers at Motilal Nehru Marg. His entourage bundled themselves into a second car and followed. As he settled into the uncomfortable rear bench seat — standard government issue — his phone rang. He looked at the number flashing on his screen. It was the Director of the CBI — the Central Bureau of Investigation.
He took the call.
“We have tried our best,” began the Director. “In my opinion nothing can be traced back to you.”
“How sure are you?” asked the Attorney General softly.
“I’ve had several men assigned to the matter. Unfortunately it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“I cannot afford to have this come out. The stakes are too bloody high.”
“I understand completely,” said the Director. “I shall do my best to keep it under wraps.”
“I appreciate that,” the Attorney General told him.
It was fortuitous that the Director of the CBI was under a cloud and needed all the help he could get to hold on to his position. The Attorney General had promised him he would speak to the Prime Minister’s political advisor and swing matters his way.
The Attorney General smiled as he disconnected the call. It was always good doing business with people whose interests were aligned with one’s own.
Chapter 69
Hurt, Nisha twisted and in the bouncing beam of the flashlight caught a glimpse of her assailant. A grubby man wearing filthy shorts and a ripped vest, his hair was long, reaching his shoulders. In his upraised hand was a short club of some kind, ready for another attack.
“Who are you?” he demanded, advancing on her.
But she was in no mood to answer questions. The pigeons were terrifying, but grimy guys with big sticks she could deal with.
As he advanced she dazzled him with the torch and pivoted at the same time, sweeping his legs from beneath him.
The club spun off as he fell badly, and with a shout of pain so loud she didn’t even bother drawing her gun. In a second she was astride him, pinning him to the floor and dazzling him again with the flashlight. Now she saw him for what he was: a grimy, broken-down old man. She felt mildly nauseous as she was hit by the stench of his unwashed body and bad breath. On his clothes was the odor of cheap alcohol and stale tobacco smoke.
“We can do this either the easy way or the hard way,” hissed Nisha. “Answer a few questions for me and I leave you with enough cash for a tipple. Play tough and I leave you with busted kneecaps.”
He blinked in the light, his eyes adjusting. “Why? Who are you?”
“My name is Nisha Gandhe and I’m an investigator,” she replied, out of breath. “I was hoping that a visit to this place would help me find out a little more about Elina Xavier.”
“Why do you want to know?” he asked cautiously.
“She was murdered a few days ago and research into her background showed that she had once been the headmistress of this orphanage,” replied Nisha. “Why don’t you begin by telling me who you are and what you’re doing here?”
“I used to be the night guard for the orphanage,” he said, lips loosened by the promise of more booze. “I stayed here until the place shut down during the Mumbai riots.”
“Why would the riots affect an orphanage?”
Pinned beneath her, he still managed a shrug. “Riot’s a riot. Riot doesn’t care what it destroys.”
“And what are you doing here now?”
Again he shrugged. “It’s here or the streets.”
“And you were an employee during the years when Elina Xavier was the headmistress here?”
“Sure,” said the man. “I was officially employed here at that time. She was a real tight-ass, that one.”
“What do you mean?” asked Nisha curiously.
“She had all the trustees wrapped around her little finger. She could do whatever she wanted and get away with it because they were all on her side. She was arrogant and bossy with everyone here.”
“How was she with the children?”
“She was a harsh taskmaster, demanding discipline, courteousness, and hard work from the kids.”
“Anything else that I should know?” asked Nisha, tightening her grip on his wrists.
“There were rumors... but I never saw it happen,” said the man suddenly.
“Rumors about what?” asked Nisha.
“That she beat the children,” he said uncomfortably. “I remember hearing them crying and screaming at night, but I was never sure whether it was because of Xavier.”
“Was there any evidence to suggest that she abused the children?”
“The housekeeper who cleaned the dormitory would talk of soiled sheets and bloody welts,” replied the man cautiously, “but then that woman hated Xavier. I could never be sure what to believe.”
“Why didn’t the trustees take action? Why would they sit by quietly if there were instances of abuse?”
“The chief trustee was a powerful man. I can’t remember his name now but he was very well connected, the bugger. Xavier was bonking him. In her younger days she was quite a looker,” winked the deadbeat.
Nisha thought about what the man had just said and released his arms. Getting off him, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a five-hundred-rupee bill that she handed over to him wordlessly. She then turned around and made her way out of that dark and evil place that still seemed to echo with the cries and screams of orphans.
Chapter 70
On the Wednesday that Elina Xavier, the school principal, had been murdered, she had spent the better part of the day in Mahim Church.
She had shuffled her way through the crowds gathered for prayers. Although it was a Catholic parish, few people in Mumbai called it St Michael’s Church. For the average Mumbaikar — as Mumbai residents called themselves — it was simply known as Mahim Church after the area in which it was located, a place where not only Christians but also Hindus, Muslims, Parsis, Buddhists, and Sikhs could gather to pray.
It was believed that visiting the church on nine consecutive Wednesdays would result in wishes being granted — and this was Elina’s ninth. She had been diagnosed with leukemia a year previously but her doctors were now telling her that the disease was in remission after bone-marrow transplants, dialysis, and multiple rounds of chemotherapy. All she had wanted was her life back. Hence her desperate call for help to the Lord each Wednesday.
Father Luis had seen Elina Xavier and looked at his watch. She had specifically requested to say confession today. It seemed as though she had needed to get a few things that were bothering her off her chest. He had gestured to her to enter the confessional. Elina had pulled herself together, taken a deep breath, and followed him to the box, taking her place on the opposite side of the screen.