The man locked his room door, stood on the bed, and reached up to unscrew the fire alarm. He pulled out the batteries and screwed back the lid. He then sat on the bed for the next hour, chain smoking. In his head were images of his son in a hospital bed. Then images of his son’s funeral pyre.
If someone had cared, my son would still be alive.
He stubbed out the last cigarette and stood up once more on the bed. He pulled off the belt from his trousers and looped it into the ceiling fan. He tugged at it to check the strength of the fan. Satisfied that it could take his weight, he placed his head into the noose that he had fashioned. He then bent his legs, allowing his entire body weight to shift to the belt.
MGT’s body was discovered around six hours later after the police identified his car in the parking lot of the motel.
EPILOGUE
Chapter 111
IT WAS THREE months later, and everything about the case against Ajoy Guha had been expedited. The trial was fast-tracked, his plea had been guilty, and he had made no appeal against the sentence of death, asking only that it be carried out as soon as possible.
Shortly before the execution, Jack flew into Delhi. The day before, he summoned Santosh, Nisha, and Neel to the Oberoi. There they assembled in reception and were greeted by Jack.
“Santosh, you got your cane back,” he said.
“Retrieved from Ibrahim’s van.”
“I’m pleased to see it,” he said. “Neel, I trust things are going well with Ash? And how’s the new car?”
Neel’s smile said it all, and Jack turned to Nisha. “The last time I saw you, your arm was in a sling. Good to see you’re better. How’s Maya?”
Nisha had been smiling at the mention of Neel and the car she’d crashed, but at the thought of Maya her eyes clouded and she spent a moment or so composing herself. “I’m spending a lot more time with her,” she replied. “Turns out we have a bit of catching up to do, and I have a lot of being-a-proper-mother to do. We go on holiday to Shimla in a couple of days, but she’s still having nightmares, Jack. Not just about her ordeal.”
Next, the four of them made their way from reception to the conference room. There they were greeted by a surprise. Waiting for them were the Chief Minister, Jaswal, Delhi’s Lieutenant Governor, Chopra, and the Commissioner, Sharma.
The Private team took their seats. They eyed each other warily, unsure of the purpose of the meeting and looking to Jack as he moved to the head of the table, took off his leather jacket, draped it over a chair, and then rested his hands on the back of the chair.
He paused and then addressed the meeting. “Okay, I’ll make this brief. I don’t suppose there are many in this room who can claim to have covered themselves in glory over the Deliverer murder case, and I’m not asking for a post-mortem; I’m not asking for each man to confess his sins. But what I will do is start by saying that I’m just as culpable as anybody else here, and I owe you an apology. To you in particular, Santosh, I’d like to say sorry for ignoring your advice and dragging Private into a politically motivated case when you warned me otherwise.”
Santosh gave a short, grateful nod that Jack waved away. Meanwhile Jaswal was about to speak up, but Jack held out a hand, politely silencing him. “Mr. Jaswal, I intend to reimburse you all of the fees you’ve paid, and please accept my apologies for having led you to believe that Private’s allegiances lay with you in your turf war with Mr. Chopra here. We are an independent detective agency. My mistake was to believe—wrongly, as it turned out—that making high-level contacts in Delhi was the best way to establish my business here. What I should have done was concentrate on Private’s core business, which is …” his head dropped for a moment, “trying to help people. Trying to do a bit of good in this cold world of ours.
“But, like I say, we’ve all made mistakes. Not just me. And what I want to propose now is that we don’t compound those mistakes by making another one. I’m here to ask you, Mr. Chopra, and you, Mr. Jaswal, for leniency for Ajoy Guha.”
Puzzled glances were exchanged. Chopra was about to speak up, but Jack cut him off and continued, “A little girl of my acquaintance is crying because she believes the state is killing the man who saved her life. I think we all know the little girl in question. Maya Gandhe, daughter of our very own Nisha, the girl who won the hearts and minds of Delhi thanks to her starring role in recent events. She’s already held in such affection—she’s become such a symbol of hope for the people—that I’m betting she could change things just by speaking out. Not that she knows that.” He paused in order to let the implication sink in. “Yet.”
Chopra and Jaswal looked at one another, both aware they were being played. Jack went on, “Now, we in this room know more than most that there’s nothing intrinsically good about Ajoy Guha. He did some terrible, wicked things. And yet …” Jack shrugged, spreading his hands. “He seems to have inspired people. Certainly he has Maya. And let’s face it, he certainly wants to die, probably because he knows that dead he becomes a martyr, a much more potent symbol than if he lives, gets old, and dies in some prison somewhere. I ask you: are we in the business of giving a man like Guha what he wants? Is that a wise course of action, do you think?”
Jack swallowed and went for broke. Addressing Jaswal and Chopra he said, “What do you say, gentlemen? The execution is tomorrow. How about we find a way to cancel it?”
Chapter 112
PREPARATIONS FOR THE hanging began at 3:30 a.m. Not long after that, the crowds gathered in the courtyard. By daybreak, as Delhi awoke to a day of reckoning, the chanting had begun.
Guha was permitted a hot shower and a fresh set of clothes. The medical officer gave him a quick physical to certify that he was in sound health to face the calibrated drop to death.
There was a clicking of boots on the concrete floor as the head warder and four deputies arrived at the cell. The warders stationed themselves front, back, left, and right of the prisoner. On an order from the head warder they began walking toward the gallows, where Guha was handed over to the executioner. The Chief Judicial Magistrate read the verdict that had sentenced him to death.
The executioner was a police constable who had conducted eight previous hangings. He tied Guha’s hands behind his back and bound his legs. He positioned him at the center of the platform’s trapdoor, and then fastened the noose around his neck, adjusting it to ensure the knot was slightly to one side. He began reciting a short prayer to mitigate the guilt of killing another human being.
And now the hour was upon them. In the courtyard, and in the streets, it was as though the whole city held its breath. After all, Guha’s case had been the most high-profile one ever seen in the country’s legal system. Across the country people had held demonstrations demanding leniency for Guha. On social media, the hashtag #SaveAjoyGuha had been trending continuously, and to the followers of #TeamGuha he was a hero.
“Ajoy Guha Amar Rahe!” they chanted: “May Ajoy Guha forever remain immortal.”
The man himself was determined to die. He wanted to die so that the Deliverer might live. That was his gift to the people.
The hangman tightened his grip on the lever that would release the trapdoor under Guha’s feet.