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.
Hari nodded meekly.
“So you are now a free man. But here are the terms on which I’m letting you go...” explained Rupesh patiently.
Chapter 77
Nisha reached the office in Worli a few minutes before closing time. What she would do for an Ajay-type figure now. She looked once again at the board that read Office of the Charity Commissioner, and crossed her fingers that she would be able to find what she was looking for. As was to be expected, most of the staff had left before closing hour. It was a well-known fact that Indian government servants reached their offices late and made up for it by leaving early.
A solitary senior clerk was still at his desk and looked up from the file on his desk as she approached. “I was hoping that you could assist me,” said Nisha tentatively, slipping a couple of thousands into his hand.
The man looked at the cash and pocketed it quickly. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Do all charitable trusts have to be registered here in this office?”
“Under section eighteen, sub-clause one of the Bombay Public Trusts Act of 1950, it is the duty of the trustee of a public trust to make an application for the registration of the trust at the Office of the Charity Commissioner,” replied the clerk mechanically. “So the answer is yes, registration is mandatory.”
“And is it possible to access the records of a given trust?”
“All trusts are required to submit their audited statement of accounts with this office. Information about income, expenditure, asset block, and trustees can be gathered from the annual audited statements submitted to the authority,” replied the clerk, almost rattling off the rule book. “What type of trust are you looking into?”
“I don’t understand,” replied Nisha. “You mean that there are various types?”
“There are Hindu religious trusts, Muslim trusts, those registered via trust deed, Parsi trusts, and Christian trusts. If you tell me the name of the trust in question, I should be able to assist you.”
“It was established in 1891 and called the Sir Jimmy Mehta Trust,” said Nisha, pulling up the photograph of the orphanage signboard on her smartphone and handing it over to the clerk.
He scrutinized the photo for a moment. “Ah, that’s a Parsi trust. It would have been registered under the previous act — the Indian Trusts Act of 1882. Accessing information on that one is a little more complicated.”
Nisha pulled out some more cash that she handed over to him. “I was hoping that you could make it simple for me,” she said. The clerk smiled. It would be a happy Diwali season for him.