The Colaba Conspiracy

by Surender Mohan Pathak

  ‘Did you return home from the store with your father?’

  ‘I did, for a short time. Then I returned to my hotel.’

  ‘You don’t stay with your father when in Mumbai?’

  ‘I stay there—after all that’s my home too—but I had some other things to attend to in Mumbai. I had to meet some people, and it was more convenient to do that in a hotel.’

  ‘And on Thursday?’

  ‘My business was not yet finished on Thursday, so I could not meet Papa that day. We talked over the phone twice in the day though. However I met him again the next day.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the store. I stayed there for three to four hours.’

  ‘So, you did not go to Tulsi Chambers, Colaba on Thursday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe you were free from your business by the evening, and then you went there! At around seven o’clock?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have a key of the Tulsi Chambers flat?’

  ‘All of us have the key. Papa himself made it available to all of us.’

  ‘So there is no problem in terms of entering the flat, even if there’s nobody home?’

  ‘Yes, that is so.’

  ‘There is a fancy, fabulously priced cutlery set in the house. You know about it?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘How do you know about it?’

  ‘It’s a household item, and I belong to that house.’

  ‘But you don’t live there!’

  ‘I know of the set all the same. It is a tradition of the Changulani household that the best cutlery, the best crockery is utilized for guests, whether family members or not.’

  ‘So you do know about that special cutlery set?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then in a manner of speaking, you, too, are the owner of that cutlery set?’

  ‘You can say that.’

  ‘So, in that capacity of yours, if you take one piece out of the set—say, a carving knife—in your possession, it would be an ordinary instance, no?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Take it as a hypothetical question. It is something that you may or may not do, but you could do it all the same, no?’

  ‘Yes, but, sir, if you are going through all this to show that it was I who made the murder weapon available to the killer then I strongly object to it.’

  ‘I too object, your honour,’ the public prosecutor said.

  ‘I take the objection of my learned friend into account with due respect, but my objective in asking all these questions was to show that the star attractions of his theory, i.e. motive, opportunity and means, are not the exclusive territory of the accused. Anybody with a key to the flat had access to the murder weapon, and all those things that apply to the accused regarding the opportunity apply to the other members of the family as well. The prosecution alleged that the accused made the murder weapon available to her accomplice. But it could also be said that some other family member made it available to a contract killer. I am not saying that a family member actually did it, but I mean to say that any member of the family could have done that. And as far as the motive is concerned, I would like to resume the conversation with the witness. Alokji, I am not levelling any accusation against you, I am just raising a question so as to reach the truth. The defence has a strong indication that a mysterious visitor came to your father’s house at Tulsi Chambers on Thursday, 14 May at seven in the evening. My simple question to you is—were you that visitor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where were you that day at seven in the evening?’

  ‘I was at my hotel, meeting a person in relation to my employment. I can present that person here. I can call him and ask him to come here. Or better, I can give you his phone number and you can call him yourself so that you are convinced that I have not coached him.’

  ‘He might have been coached in advance!’

  ‘But I never knew what I was going to be asked here. I never knew that I needed an alibi for what particular time, what particular action, what particular movement.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right …’

  ‘No maybe, sir, I’m definitely right.’

  ‘… Now, one last question. How is your financial position?’

  ‘Good! Comfortable!’

  ‘You are not under any monetary pressure?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t need any big sum of money urgently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No such requirement which you think could only be fulfilled by your rich father?’

  ‘No, I never felt any such requirement.’

  ‘God forbidding, had there been such a requirement, where would you have gone?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? I would have certainly gone to Papa.’

  ‘Did you ever receive any financial assistance from your father?’

  ‘Yes, many a time.’

  ‘What about heavy financial assistance?’

  ‘I got that too once, when I had to settle in England, had to set up house there.’

  ‘How much did you get?’

  ‘Twenty-five thousand pounds.’

  ‘Something around twenty lakh rupees?’

  ‘Yes, and he made such an arrangement that I got the money in Manchester.’

  ‘You had a generous father.’

  ‘No doubt. I miss him already. I would love to kill his killer,’ he threw a ferocious look at Sushmita, ‘with my bare hands.’

  ‘I don’t want to ask this witness anything else.’

  The room Jeet Singh was booked in was on the fourth floor of the hotel.

  Shortly after reaching there, he had gone to have a look at the sixth floor. He had found that room 605 was in the middle of the floor. It was a modern, rated hotel and the doors of the rooms opened through keycards. That was a setback for him, but he had a scheme to get access to the room.

  He reached there with Pardesi. He had a good personality, decent apparel, so he was stationed in the lobby of the hotel. Gailo was at the iron gate of the hotel sitting in his taxi. He had raised the hood of his taxi so it could appear to a prospective passenger that the taxi had broken down.

  Both of them could recognize Rajaram and they were entrusted with one single task.

  They had to inform Jeet Singh, to alert Jeet Singh, the moment they saw him coming.

  At ten, Jeet Singh saw a housekeeping trolley moving around on his floor. A girl in the maid’s uniform was going room to room, changing towels and bed linen, and cleaning the rooms and washrooms.

  Jeet Singh picked his leather briefcase and left the room.

  The revolver with the silencer was in the briefcase.

  He reached the sixth floor through the stairs.

  The housekeeping trolley was stationed in front of room 604.

  He stood there, waiting.

  Nobody set foot on the stairs during that time, but the lift was operating busily.

  At last, the maid opened room 605 with her master keycard. She went in, and came back after some time with a heap of used towels and bedsheets in her hands. She deposited everything in a hamper, collected new sheets and went back into the room again.

  Jeet Singh waited for some time, and then walked in confidently.

  He was wearing his black suit at that time, which was made available to him by Inspector Govilkar, deceased, and the combination of the leather briefcase with the suit made him look like a business executive. Whistling and holding the keycard in his hand, he busily entered room 605. The maid then was changing the pillow covers.

  ‘Hello!’ he said pleasantly, without giving her a proper glance. ‘Good morning.’

  The maid saw the keycard in his hand and she automatically assumed him to be the occupant of the room. The maids changed regularly, the guests changed regularly, and most of the housekeeping work happened in the absence of the occupant of the room, so whoever made an authoritative-enough entry was the occupant.

  Her lips
automatically moved to form a smile and she said in a sweet voice, ‘Good morning, sir.’

  Jeet Singh threw his briefcase on the bed, then his coat on it, and finally, loosening his tie, occupied the sofa-chair.

  ‘Had a heavy breakfast,’ he said casually, ‘returned to have a nap.’

  She smiled—as if she knew that it was normal for the breakfast to get heavy, as it was included in the room rent.

  ‘Am I hampering your work?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘If so, I can move out!’

  ‘Not at all, sir. I’d be done in another five minutes, then you can rest at ease.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  The maid left the room in five minutes.

  Rajaram’s room was open now, and Jeet Singh was sitting inside it.

  Everything was ok—except for one question.

  Would Rajaram return?’

  That question could only be answered by a wait.

  The next witness was the younger son, Ashok Changulani.

  Public prosecutor Bhuvnesh Dixit asked him nearly the same questions he asked the elder son. Those questions revealed that he was also settled in England for the last nine years, and ran a restaurant named Taste of India in the Bayswater area of London. He had married a local girl there some years back, but the marriage did not last long. They were divorced one-and-a-half years ago, and he had been single since then.

  He too confirmed that cash worth ten lakh rupees and a precious sapphire ring of their father were recovered from the bag of the accused. He also vehemently opposed the claim that she was his father’s wife.

  ‘Your witness,’ the public prosecutor finally said to Gunjan Shah.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Shah, standing up and confronting the witness. ‘First of all, I’ve got the same question for you, too. You frequently come to India?’

  ‘My answer is the same as Alok’s,’ the witness said. ‘Not frequently. In my catering business I happen to be busier than Alok. For coming to India—for going anywhere out of London—I have to close my restaurant which I can’t afford.’

  ‘Excluding the current visit, when was the last time you were in Mumbai?’

  ‘Three years ago, like Alok.’

  ‘You came with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you brothers always come like this whenever you have to come to Mumbai? Together?’

  ‘Not necessarily. It was a coincidence that we travelled together that time.’

  ‘Do you confirm that you, too, have a key to your father’s flat in Tulsi Chambers?’

  ‘I do. When Papa gave the key to the others, he gave one to me, too.’

  ‘And you also know about the fancy, expensive, exclusive cutlery set present in the house?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You know about every piece of that cutlery set?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then you must be aware that there was a carving knife in that cutlery set, other than forks, spoons and the other stuff?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I am aware of that.’

  ‘That carving knife is missing from the set!’

  ‘Yes, I have heard about it.’

  ‘That knife is missing because it was the murder weapon, and it was recovered from the crime scene, no?’

  ‘Well, the police think so.’

  ‘And what do you yourself think about it?’

  ‘It’s no different.’

  ‘What do you think, it was the same knife or a similar knife?’

  ‘If the police say it was the same knife then it must be the same knife, and if they say it was a similar knife, then it must be a similar knife.’

  ‘But it is the same knife most likely, for a special knife is missing from the special cutlery set of the house?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you make it disappear from its place?’

  ‘Objection, your honour,’ the public prosecutor immediately intervened, ‘this is …’

  ‘I don’t have a problem in answering that question,’ the witness said.

  ‘The point is not about you not having a problem in answering it. The point is that the defence’s question is incompetent.’

  ‘Objection sustained,’ ruled the judge.

  ‘Do you know what a supari killer is?’ Shah asked a new question.

  ‘Yes, I do. This is a Mumbai term for a person who is engaged on payment to kill somebody.’

  ‘How do you know about this term? Have you ever engaged a supari killer?’

  The public prosecutor tried to raise an objection but let it go since the witness had already answered.

  ‘No,’ the witness said, ‘I know about this term because basically I’m a Mumbaikar myself. I spent twenty-one years here in Mumbai before migrating to England.’

  ‘That means your current age is thirty years, as you said you have been in England for nine years?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Are you well-settled? Well-off?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You are not facing any financial difficulties?’

  ‘Why are you asking this question?’

  ‘It has been heard that your ex-wife bled you dry in the divorce settlement!’

  ‘Objection!’ the public prosecutor said. ‘This is assuming the fact not in evidence …’

  ‘Which fact is not in evidence?’ an irritated Shah snapped. ‘Is the divorce not in evidence? Is the divorce settlement not in evidence? Or his status as a divorcee is not in evidence?’

  ‘Further, the defence should use civil language while interrogating the witness. “Bled you dry” is not civil language.’

  ‘I will correct myself. Ashokji, isn’t it correct that the divorce was a major financial setback for you?’

  ‘It’s correct.’

  ‘And your economic decline also started after the divorce?’

  ‘Ups and downs are a part of everybody’s life.’

  ‘But it seems to be rather more so in your case, because your Bayswater restaurant doesn’t make a profit either!’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I don’t have to reveal my sources of information. Shut me up if my information is incorrect. “Shut me up” too is not literal, Mr Dixit. I hope you don’t term this too as uncivil language. If what I’ve said is correct, accept it. Now, I repeat my question to the witness. Sir, tell us, what’s the position of your restaurant in terms of business? Is it earning profits, or making a loss for a long time?’

  ‘It is making a loss, but I reiterate, ups and downs can happen to anybody.’

  ‘In your case, the ups are rare, while the downs are in plenty, and for that there’s another reason, too.’

  ‘Another reason?’

  ‘You’re a gambler.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘You gamble.’

  ‘Objection, your honour,’ the public prosecutor jumped from his seat, ‘this is grave insinuation. This is character assassination. This is an irresponsible allegation that is being purposely levelled against my client with malicious intent.’

  ‘Mr Shah,’ the judge said, ‘do you want to be heard in this context?’

  ‘Yes, your honour, I do want to be heard, if you permit me to do so. Neither is my statement irresponsible, nor does it have any element of malice. I have here with me a reliable report issued by a registered, international private investigation agency from London. The subject of the report is the witness, Ashok Changulani, son of Pursumal Changulani, aged thirty, resident of Bayswater, London. This report states with authority that the witness is a compulsive gambler, and he has liabilities worth six lakh pounds as gambling debts, which in Indian currency would be somewhere near five crore rupees.’

  Immediately there was pin-drop silence in the court.

  The witness’s face had turned chalky white. He became restless and started swallowing again and again.

  ‘Now, I dare the witness to protest, or shut up,’ Shah roared.

  ‘Your h
onour,’ the district attorney protested vehemently, ‘even if the report is true, what’s its relevance? The witness is rich or poor, is a financial disaster or is well-off, he is in debt or not, what does it have to do with the case?’

  ‘It has to do a whole lot with the case. During the deposition of the previous witness, the public prosecutor himself in his fancy speech highlighted the motive of murder as monetary, that it was committed to usurp big money. If this motive is good enough for the accused, why it is not good enough for this witness who has a huge debt to negotiate with? If the reason of the murder could be greed then why could it not be need? It has been mentioned in this report of the London-based private investigation agency that the casino that the witness owes money to, has engaged enforcers to keep track of him and force him to pay back the debt. These enforcers are notorious for torturing, breaking limbs, even killing the defaulter, and if he tries to disappear, they can dig him out of any hiding place. You can well imagine, your honour, that a person caught in such a web could do anything, he could go to any length to save his skin. Getting somebody killed is no big deal when one is facing the threat of being killed.’

  ‘The statement of the defence attorney is imaginary and unbelievable, your honour. No son can murder his father.’

  ‘And how do you know that? Is it published in the gazette? Is it recorded in any law book? Pick up any newspaper, such bloody happenings are everyday occurrences. A wretched, worthless, ungrateful issue could not only kill his father, but could eliminate the whole family. Sons kill fathers, brothers kill brothers, what is new? And to top it all, I only offered a possibility. I never said that the witness killed his father, or had him killed by a supari killer. I only said that the witness had a strong, ready-made reason for taking such an extreme step. If the public prosecutor can, by defining a motive in his own way, hang my client on the cross, then why can I not, by highlighting a much stronger motive, point an accusing finger at this man standing in the witness box? That too, when I have still more ammunition against this witness.’

  ‘There’s more to it yet?’ the public prosecutor exclaimed.

  The witness too was flabbergasted, and looked at Shah nervously.

  ‘Yes, there is. I will present it before the court if you allow me to proceed.’

  ‘It is my suggestion to the public prosecutor Mr Dixit,’ the judge said, ‘to curb his objections for some time and permit Mr Shah to conclude his argument.’