mentioned Jogani was divorced, single? 'But .Mr Jogani wasn't married.'
'He was married before the divorce,' he explicated innocently. 'Mrs Jogani come back to the apartment.' Despite his grammar, he conversed in English.
Horror vacui, Rita pondered. Nature abhors a vacuum, doesn't it? Dig a trench and the river fills it in, pull out a shrub from its roots and the weeds appear within days. Depose a dictator and the coup leader becomes the next tyrant. Vacate an apartment in Cuffe Parade and Mrs Jogani — the ex Mrs Jogani — gravitates into it before rigor mortis sets in Ron Jogani's corpse. Rita and Jatin exchanged glances. This was getting interesting.
'OK, let us in, we need to see Mrs Jogani.'
The guard didn't flinch; he jinked and raised the barrier for the car to drive in. He courteously pointed towards the visitors' parking spot. The building, for all its financial value, looked worn out due to the harsh Mumbai weather. Being close to the sea — like Rita's own Bandra apartment —the salt and moisture had played their part too despite the large reserve funds in the kitty to upkeep the same. However, give the breadth of the towers it was evident that the apartments were leviathan by Mumbai standards where builders could sell a one-bedroom apartment in 400 square feet and a family of four could dwell in it. Certainly lavish. Considering the gentry that resided here anything smaller would have been embarrassing anyway.
Rita and Jatin didn't speak. Rita wondered if the return of Mrs Jogani was a coincidence or a consequence of Jogani's death. She leaned towards the latter. They silently took the elevator to the fifteenth floor.
Wouldn't Jogani have alarmed the apartment before he left for Belgium? If so, how did ex Mrs Jogani get into it?
Jatin Singh rang the bell and the maidservant opened the door instantly, like she was waiting for them. In all probability the pint-sized security guard would have called in to inform about the visitors. Jatin introduced them and showed the maid his ID. She ushered them into the house. They walked behind the maid into a broad entrance lobby and into the living room. She requested them to sit and informed them that “madam” would be out within minutes to see them. Before leaving the room she asked if they needed a drink.
Both asked for cold water.
The furniture in the living room was upholstered in beige and raw silk and tan leather. A potpourri of artefacts filled up every available space in the room. The living room had an unusually high ceiling that provided space for all his paintings to be displayed on the cream walls. Full marks for aesthetics. Almost zero on personal touch. It was the kind of house that screamed that it was done up by an interior designer, the kind they featured in magazines. Maybe some designer magazine had already covered it, but Rita didn't know. She had done her apartment herself in a minimalistic design.
Rita had no doubt that the ex Mrs Jogani would be unforthcoming, if not utterly inimical. But she was keen to know the how-and-why. The alternative theory was, once again, beginning to spin in her mind: was Ron Jogani actually killed for the diamonds?
'It took you quite some time to come by.' The ex Mrs Jogani arrived. An upright, tall woman — marginally taller than Rita — in her late forties with certainly more make-up than Shehnaz Hussain would recommend, but not too distasteful. She would have certainly been a stunner in her youth. She was casually attired in a white round-neck T that had The Beatles crossing the Abbey Road on the front peeping out of the knee length denim dungarees. She didn't appear to be mourning. She didn't appear defeated. Or lost or bereaved.
'Hello, I'm DCP Rita Ferreira, and this is Inspector Jatin Singh. And you are…?' Rita wanted to avoid calling her Mrs Jogani.
'Anita. I was once married to Ronnie,' she said glumly.
Were you a widow if your spouse died after the divorce?
'Hello Anita, sorry I couldn't
'He was married before the divorce,' he explicated innocently. 'Mrs Jogani come back to the apartment.' Despite his grammar, he conversed in English.
Horror vacui, Rita pondered. Nature abhors a vacuum, doesn't it? Dig a trench and the river fills it in, pull out a shrub from its roots and the weeds appear within days. Depose a dictator and the coup leader becomes the next tyrant. Vacate an apartment in Cuffe Parade and Mrs Jogani — the ex Mrs Jogani — gravitates into it before rigor mortis sets in Ron Jogani's corpse. Rita and Jatin exchanged glances. This was getting interesting.
'OK, let us in, we need to see Mrs Jogani.'
The guard didn't flinch; he jinked and raised the barrier for the car to drive in. He courteously pointed towards the visitors' parking spot. The building, for all its financial value, looked worn out due to the harsh Mumbai weather. Being close to the sea — like Rita's own Bandra apartment —the salt and moisture had played their part too despite the large reserve funds in the kitty to upkeep the same. However, give the breadth of the towers it was evident that the apartments were leviathan by Mumbai standards where builders could sell a one-bedroom apartment in 400 square feet and a family of four could dwell in it. Certainly lavish. Considering the gentry that resided here anything smaller would have been embarrassing anyway.
Rita and Jatin didn't speak. Rita wondered if the return of Mrs Jogani was a coincidence or a consequence of Jogani's death. She leaned towards the latter. They silently took the elevator to the fifteenth floor.
Wouldn't Jogani have alarmed the apartment before he left for Belgium? If so, how did ex Mrs Jogani get into it?
Jatin Singh rang the bell and the maidservant opened the door instantly, like she was waiting for them. In all probability the pint-sized security guard would have called in to inform about the visitors. Jatin introduced them and showed the maid his ID. She ushered them into the house. They walked behind the maid into a broad entrance lobby and into the living room. She requested them to sit and informed them that “madam” would be out within minutes to see them. Before leaving the room she asked if they needed a drink.
Both asked for cold water.
The furniture in the living room was upholstered in beige and raw silk and tan leather. A potpourri of artefacts filled up every available space in the room. The living room had an unusually high ceiling that provided space for all his paintings to be displayed on the cream walls. Full marks for aesthetics. Almost zero on personal touch. It was the kind of house that screamed that it was done up by an interior designer, the kind they featured in magazines. Maybe some designer magazine had already covered it, but Rita didn't know. She had done her apartment herself in a minimalistic design.
Rita had no doubt that the ex Mrs Jogani would be unforthcoming, if not utterly inimical. But she was keen to know the how-and-why. The alternative theory was, once again, beginning to spin in her mind: was Ron Jogani actually killed for the diamonds?
'It took you quite some time to come by.' The ex Mrs Jogani arrived. An upright, tall woman — marginally taller than Rita — in her late forties with certainly more make-up than Shehnaz Hussain would recommend, but not too distasteful. She would have certainly been a stunner in her youth. She was casually attired in a white round-neck T that had The Beatles crossing the Abbey Road on the front peeping out of the knee length denim dungarees. She didn't appear to be mourning. She didn't appear defeated. Or lost or bereaved.
'Hello, I'm DCP Rita Ferreira, and this is Inspector Jatin Singh. And you are…?' Rita wanted to avoid calling her Mrs Jogani.
'Anita. I was once married to Ronnie,' she said glumly.
Were you a widow if your spouse died after the divorce?
'Hello Anita, sorry I couldn't
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