THE PROPERTY WAS long abandoned, its grounds so mud-soaked and choked with weeds that she was forced to park the car by the side of the deserted road and cover the last mile on foot.
And she wished that time wasn’t against them, and that she could have made this trip in the daylight hours.
Ahead of her loomed the crumbling building, painted gray by the moonlight. The roof had caved in, she realized as she came closer. The rear of the building seemed to have been burned down, the walls black with the marks of an inferno. All the windows were either cracked or covered in a thick coat of dust and grime. Behind them was utter darkness and a strange eeriness.
A solid door made from Burma teak had been subjected to years of adolescent graffiti. A rusted chain and padlock held it shut and a couple of speckled lizards stood guard on the smooth stone framing the teak. Nisha’s torch beam sent them scurrying for cover as it illuminated a faded signboard above the door.
Bombay City Orphanage, it said, and below that in smaller letters: ESTABLISHED 1891 BY THE SIR JIMMY MEHTA TRUST. She snapped a picture of it with her smartphone.
There was part of her that wanted to turn away from this sinister place. It dredged up memories of her own childhood, of a dead mother and an absent father. Adopted by a loving couple with strong middle-class values, she had been well educated and her adoptive parents had supported her endeavor to join the police force. But privately she always felt the absence of her biological parents.
Anyway. Enough. She shrugged off the memories to focus on the task at hand.
Would there be anything worth examining inside the ramshackle place? She could almost hear her own thoughts in the ominously silent ruins of the neglected establishment. Except for the chirping of crickets there was no sound to be heard, the nearest dwellings over a mile away. The land that had been donated to the orphanage trust was along the fringes of the long stretch of dark and forbidding mangroves that bordered Malad Creek.
She didn’t have a warrant but given the building’s state of disrepair she decided to take her chances and picked a rock from the ground to hammer against the rusting padlock. The blows reverberated in the stillness, shattering the creepy calm, and the rusted lock fell with a clunk to the porch floor.
Taking a deep breath, Nisha kicked open the door then slipped inside, listening. All was quiet.
So how come she had the feeling that she wasn’t alone?
She ran her flashlight beam over what turned out to be a colonial-style entrance lobby. Years of neglect had resulted in a heavy layer of dust everywhere and she brought a kerchief to her face as she moved the light. To her right was a doorway leading to smaller office rooms; to her left empty hooks and patches of fading plaster spoke of pictures removed from the wall.
In front of her was a wide staircase leading to the floor above. She stepped toward it, then jumped as startled pigeons suddenly took to the air, the flapping of their wings loud as explosions in the damp silence.
Her heart hammered in her chest and she fought to control her breathing, almost laughing. She decided that if it came to a straight choice between a drunk demanding a blow job and pigeons, she’d take the drunk any day.
Now she took the steps, gingerly, praying the creaking floorboards wouldn’t give way. She reached the first floor where a large room was filled with old rusting bed frames. Once upon a time it would have been a dormitory filled with children—children with no parents. Children like her.
Lost in thought, she didn’t sense what was behind her until it was too late, and a blow from behind sent her sprawling to the floor.
Chapter 68
SURROUNDED BY HIS entourage, the Attorney General made his way across the plaza outside the courtroom of the Chief Justice with an almost majestic swagger.
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 p
romised him he would speak to the Prime Minister’s political advisor and swing matters his way.