roar from the rear. Someone was travelling towards them from behind. Rita looked in the wing mirror and saw a leather clad figure — who, presumably, hadn't seen that the traffic light was red — racing towards the junction. As the roar got louder and the motorcyclist got larger in the wing mirror Rita wondered how the idiot planned to brake at the last minute, as the signal still read thirty-one seconds to go green.
The motorcyclist didn't decelerate. With a helmet covering a brainless head the rider jumped the signal at a speed that — God forbid — if it crashed into anyone, the rider's DNA would have to be scraped from the tarmac.
'Idiot,' Rita shouted aloud, not realising that windows of the car were up. 'Did you see that?'
'Nutter. There are many like him in the city these days, ma'am. Since these imported large engine motorcycles have come to India, and you know how we mete out driving licences in our country.'
The signal turned green and they turned right.
'He could have died…'
'Or killed someone.'
'That too. Did you read the registration plate?'
'5-7-6-4. But I couldn't catch the series, but I'll figure out a way.'
'Please. I want to meet this person, and some others like him. We should send out a notice to the local police stations. These guys shouldn't just be fined, we should take away their driving licences.'
***
Cuffe parade is one of Mumbai's crown jewels: luxurious, posh and la-di-da. Industrialists, businessmen, bureaucrats, politicians and corporate moguls reside here; it isn't a much favoured residence address for the Bollywood fraternity. Named after one Mr Cuffe, it is a dazzling example of human greed annihilating nature. 75000 square metres of land was reclaimed from the sea in the sixties to provide waterside residences and offices to those who could afford it. Apparently Ron Jogani's apartment was described as over 3700 square feet in one of India's richest housing societies: Jolly Maker One, where the societal reserve fund is so large that the residents get interest instead of paying maintenance. Jogani's apartment was on the fifteenth floor overlooking the sea. This was one of the prime residences in the country, not just in Cuffe Parade or Mumbai.
Money, diamonds, luxury apartment, fancy cars and a lot more besides, and then a bullet — a mere two centimetre metal shell — takes it all away. Kaput!
As neither of the car occupants was in uniform and there was no red light on the car, the security at Jolly Maker One stopped Rita's unmarked car at the barrier. The skinny uniformed guard came to the driver's side as Rita lowered her window.
'Yes, madam?' the guard spat out. 'Who you want?' he quizzed in his English-patois and peeked into the car to see if there were any more occupants besides the obvious two. He had his walkie-talkie ready to call the apartment resident and seek due permission before letting the visitors in.
'Mr Ron Jogani's apartment,' Rita responded politely.
The look on the guard's face was sceptical for a split-second.
'He no live here anymore. He gone.'
'Gone? Where?' Rita wanted to know if the people at this posh tower knew about Jogani's demise.'
'He go to heaven. Who you?' The guard looked doleful but carried on in his vernacular.
'Mr Jogani is no more?' Rita feigned a surprise.
'No more. Who you?'
Rita ignored him the third time. 'So who lives in his apartment now?'
'Madam lives. Who you?'
'Madam who?'
The guard, realising his questions weren't getting any response from the visitors, decided he wouldn't answer any more. 'First you tell, who you, then I tell.'
'I am DCP Rita Ferreira, and this is Inspector Jatin Singh. Does that answer your question?' Rita looked at Jain who showed the ID.
'Yes madam...' The guard looked disappointed and impressed simultaneously. His hand went up to his forehead to salute. Pure reflex.
'So who lives in Mr Jogani's apartment now?'
'Madam lives.'
'Which madam?'
'Madam Jogani.'
'Madam Jogani?' Hadn't Victor
The motorcyclist didn't decelerate. With a helmet covering a brainless head the rider jumped the signal at a speed that — God forbid — if it crashed into anyone, the rider's DNA would have to be scraped from the tarmac.
'Idiot,' Rita shouted aloud, not realising that windows of the car were up. 'Did you see that?'
'Nutter. There are many like him in the city these days, ma'am. Since these imported large engine motorcycles have come to India, and you know how we mete out driving licences in our country.'
The signal turned green and they turned right.
'He could have died…'
'Or killed someone.'
'That too. Did you read the registration plate?'
'5-7-6-4. But I couldn't catch the series, but I'll figure out a way.'
'Please. I want to meet this person, and some others like him. We should send out a notice to the local police stations. These guys shouldn't just be fined, we should take away their driving licences.'
***
Cuffe parade is one of Mumbai's crown jewels: luxurious, posh and la-di-da. Industrialists, businessmen, bureaucrats, politicians and corporate moguls reside here; it isn't a much favoured residence address for the Bollywood fraternity. Named after one Mr Cuffe, it is a dazzling example of human greed annihilating nature. 75000 square metres of land was reclaimed from the sea in the sixties to provide waterside residences and offices to those who could afford it. Apparently Ron Jogani's apartment was described as over 3700 square feet in one of India's richest housing societies: Jolly Maker One, where the societal reserve fund is so large that the residents get interest instead of paying maintenance. Jogani's apartment was on the fifteenth floor overlooking the sea. This was one of the prime residences in the country, not just in Cuffe Parade or Mumbai.
Money, diamonds, luxury apartment, fancy cars and a lot more besides, and then a bullet — a mere two centimetre metal shell — takes it all away. Kaput!
As neither of the car occupants was in uniform and there was no red light on the car, the security at Jolly Maker One stopped Rita's unmarked car at the barrier. The skinny uniformed guard came to the driver's side as Rita lowered her window.
'Yes, madam?' the guard spat out. 'Who you want?' he quizzed in his English-patois and peeked into the car to see if there were any more occupants besides the obvious two. He had his walkie-talkie ready to call the apartment resident and seek due permission before letting the visitors in.
'Mr Ron Jogani's apartment,' Rita responded politely.
The look on the guard's face was sceptical for a split-second.
'He no live here anymore. He gone.'
'Gone? Where?' Rita wanted to know if the people at this posh tower knew about Jogani's demise.'
'He go to heaven. Who you?' The guard looked doleful but carried on in his vernacular.
'Mr Jogani is no more?' Rita feigned a surprise.
'No more. Who you?'
Rita ignored him the third time. 'So who lives in his apartment now?'
'Madam lives. Who you?'
'Madam who?'
The guard, realising his questions weren't getting any response from the visitors, decided he wouldn't answer any more. 'First you tell, who you, then I tell.'
'I am DCP Rita Ferreira, and this is Inspector Jatin Singh. Does that answer your question?' Rita looked at Jain who showed the ID.
'Yes madam...' The guard looked disappointed and impressed simultaneously. His hand went up to his forehead to salute. Pure reflex.
'So who lives in Mr Jogani's apartment now?'
'Madam lives.'
'Which madam?'
'Madam Jogani.'
'Madam Jogani?' Hadn't Victor
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