The Nidhi Kapoor Story (3 page)

She could not tolerate getting dismissed like that. She egged on, “I know you like her. Weren’t you part of Nidhi’s security detail when the premier of her last film was screened for the Chief Minister? There were quite a few pictures of you with her and the CM in the newspapers. You seem to have a soft corner for her!”

“Stop wasting your time. If you want to come along, you better hurry up,” Prakash replied curtly.

He had finished signing the documents and was on his way out. Rujuta had to run to catch up with him. He had already fired up the engine. He drove his official jeep by himself. The driver was merely a watchdog and usher.

As they crossed the Juhu Tara Road bordering the Juhu Beach, Rujuta tried her luck once again. “Prakash Sir, we must come here sometime in the evening. I’ve heard the
Pav Bhaji
is to die for,” she said.

The two constables in the jeep and the driver giggled softly at the overt public display of affection. Prakash stared at them. All three of them shut their mouths immediately. Rujuta was quite amused with the scene. She smiled and started looking at people milling around on the beach. She wondered why would someone come to a beach at eleven in the morning. Didn’t they have better things to do? Were they jobless? Her thoughts slowly drifted towards Prakash and the last couple of weeks that she had spent with him.

Prakash was one of the most extraordinary men that she had come across. He was always upright and was an epitome of fairness. Rujuta pictured Prakash as a school kid who would oil his hair with such perfection that not one strand was out of place, trim his nails so deep that not a speck of dust remained stuck in the tiny crevices, polish his shoes so meticulously that he could see his reflection in them, complete his homework well on time, sit on the first bench to please the teachers and keep his eyes shut during the entire morning assembly at school. Rujuta smiled at the picture of a young Prakash that she had just painted. She realized that she had been a polar-opposite as a kid. Maybe that’s why she was so intrigued by him. She had a maddening craving for Prakash. She knew that Prakash was aware of her yearning for him and yet chose to remain elusive.

The jeep came to a halt with a jerk and Rujuta was almost thrown out of it. Prakash’s reflexes kicked in and he caught her deftly. His masculine touch on her bare arms sent goose bumps down her spine.

“Next time, you better sit in the back,” Prakash said
as he got down from the jeep. To Rujuta, it sounded like an instruction from her school principal. The constables had alighted by then and were already walking towards the massive front entrance of Ronak.

Nidhi Kapoor was now a film star herself and her success had eclipsed even Nishant’s. She shot to fame a few years ago when Nishant retired and since then, she had ruled the hearts and box offices like no other actress had. Just like Nishant had in his time.

The guards on duty at Ronak were more alert than usual. Normally they would be sprawled on their chairs, resting under an umbrella and would be sipping their sugary teas. Today, they were standing in a tight formation and had made a ring outside the main entrance. Their guns, which normally remained out of sight, were displayed in full glory today.

To admit Prakash, Rujuta and Tambe, the heavy gate opened just a wee bit with a lazy moan, as if a tiny crack had appeared in it. Once they had slid inside, the crack in the formidable iron and wood structure closed behind them, faster and tighter than ever. The whining moan was typical of the old, rusted gate that remained closed more often than it was kept open.

∗∗∗

After the commotion on the road outside, the inside of the bungalow felt unusually serene. Prakash noticed the noise reduction barriers installed on top of the periphery of the large house. In the lawn, a middle-aged man was pacing
frantically around the chairs and an umbrella. When he saw Prakash and his entourage, he hurried towards them.

“Hello Inspector… Mohile,” he said, eying Prakash’s name badge. He got Prakash’s designation wrong but Prakash ignored it. He continued, “I am Naveen Verma. Nidhi’s uncle. I spoke to Joshi Saab in the morning. Thank you so much for coming at this short notice. Joshi Saab couldn’t make it? I was expecting him, you know…”

Shankar Rao Joshi was the commissioner of police and he had instructed his office to give this case to Prakash Mohile. He had then called Prakash himself in the morning. Of all officers at his disposal, Joshi knew that Prakash was least likely to get influenced by the high-profile nature of the case and would do a thorough investigation.

Prakash interrupted Verma. “Mr. Verma, Joshi Saab may not have time to go on wild goose chases like this. He’s instructed me to visit you personally and here I am. Otherwise even I have other pressing matters to worry about. Can you show us the crime site please?” Prakash was peeved by Verma’s demand to see the commissioner.

“How dare you talk to me… And who is she? I clearly told Joshi Saab, no photographers!” Verma pointed at Rujuta and her camera. Rujuta had taken her camera out and was trying to take an artistic shot of the white wooden chairs resting against the green backdrop of the neatly kept lawn.

“She is a part of my team and will be here while I am here. She will not click any more photographs…” Prakash replied curtly and motioned to Rujuta to put her camera away. “But she will stay. If you are fine with it, we can stay and meet Ms. Nidhi. If not, we can go back to the station and
you could wait for Mr. Joshi to come and see you.”

“I don’t believe…” Verma started to argue, but then thought better of it. He walked towards the house.“Nidhi is in her room. Let’s go there.”

“I’d rather see the crime scene first please,” Prakash replied.

Verma paused, nodded silently and led them inside.

The house was an impressive two-storied structure. As Prakash, Rujuta and his team started to follow Naveen Verma inside, Prakash nodded at one of the constables. He got his cue and understood that he was to go to the entrance and chat up with security guards and get some gossip out from them under the pretext of cigarette and tea.

“Who else lives in this house Mr. Verma?” Prakash enquired.

“Here? Nidhi, her sister Payal and two servants. That’s about it. I live in a building in the next lane. I come and go as and when Nidhi needs me. Nishant now lives at a clinic in Panchgani but we have decided to get him back to Ronak as a precaution,” Verma replied.

Nishant Kapoor, the superstar of the yesteryears, was now confined to a rehab facility in the hills of Panchgani, some 250 KMs away from Mumbai. He had had an accident that left him paralyzed and there were rumors about his mental condition. Neelima, his wife, was long dead. Naveen Verma was Neelima’s brother and had been managing the business of Kapoors since Neelima and Nishant got married.

“What about those guards at the main entrance? What about the gardeners? Maids? Supplies?”

“The guards do not live here. We’ve hired a security agency and four guards work in 6-hour shifts. So, a total of 24 guards. There is a room for security guards towards the end of the lawn. They use that room for wash and change,” Verma said, pointing a finger at a small room on the far end of the house.

“There is no gardener. Payal manages the lawns with the help of Malti, the maid. For the supplies, Malti makes a list and gives it to one of the security guards. We’ve kept life simple because Nidhi likes it like that. And of course it helps control the gossip.”

Rujuta thought Verma was volunteering information by himself. Either it was not the first time that he was talking to police, or his lines were rehearsed. She made a mental note of it.

Prakash whistled and said to no one in particular, “24 guards? For one woman? And when she’s not even home most of the time! Why are we wasting our time here Tambe?”

Tambe knew that he was not supposed to react. This was how Prakash worked. He would incite and incite till the other person rolled over the edge and started to talk.

Verma, as if he did not hear Prakash, kept talking. “Nidhi is a big big star. She has her share of stalkers, obsessed fans and enemies. We have to be very cautious. We invite very few people to Ronak and the ones we do invite are all close friends or business associates. We don’t conduct our meetings here. We no longer throw gaudy parties like Nishant used to. We have cameras, biometric access system and trip alarms installed in the house. Nidhi and Payal’s security is number one agenda for us. Everything else is
secondary. It’s inexplicable how this could happen despite the precautions we take!”

Verma had talked for a large part of the walk to the main building of the house. Though he looked fit, he was almost out of breath by the time they reached the main building. He put his thumb on an electronic scan pad, entered a string of numbers and the door opened with a beep. “Please come in,” he said.

The house had been done up beautifully. Nidhi Kapoor was obviously rich and had a fine taste. The reception hall, or the drawing room, was rather large for Mumbai standards, with a grand chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Rujuta frowned at it. She thought chandeliers were a thing of the past and nobody owned them anymore.

Each wall of the house told a different story. The wall on their left was pale blue and lined with photos of the great Nishant Kapoor. It was like a viewing gallery celebrating his life. The right wall was where Nidhi Kapoor showcased art and pictures from famous artists. It also had life-size posters of old movies, from the time when posters were actually sketched and colored by hands.

Along the wall on a tall shelf were a bundle of trophies that Nishant, or maybe Nidhi, had won. Most prominently placed was a Golden Filmfare trophy. If Rujuta had known that the trophy was made in gold just once since the inception of awards in 1954, she would have spent more time reading the citation.

There was a sofa underneath the chandelier that could seat a mini procession and yet leave room for more. The tables behind the sofa had curios, apparently gathered from
all parts of the world. It was an eclectic mix of handicraft, crystals, coffee table books and other trinkets.

The whole place had a sense of symmetry to it, like someone had used a ruler to put it all together with great care. While she was wondering about the meticulous brain that had designed the hall, she realized that she was alone. She saw Tambe’s back disappearing behind an open door on the left at the far end of the hall. Not wanting to miss out on anything, she scampered towards it.

She rushed into the room and stepped onto something sticky on the floor. She looked down at it and froze in her tracks. Her eyes opened wide with shock and horror.

She gasped out loud and covered her mouth with her hands to suppress the shriek. She instead belched silently and started to shake violently. With great difficulty, she took a step back and grabbed the door to prevent herself from falling like a heap of potatoes. She was breathing hard and drops of sweat appeared on her forehead.

Rujuta was not weak-hearted. She had seen her share of gory crime scenes as a criminal photojournalist and had earned the reputation for having guts of steel. Crime scenes that made the most experienced of policemen empty their stomachs out on the sidewalks; she worked those as if she were strolling in a park. But it was a different lifetime and she was not really prepared for what was unfolding in front of her eyes, in what looked like the office of the most successful actress of the time, Nidhi Kapoor. The daughter of the great Nishant Kapoor.

3. Day 1, Afternoon. Ronak.

Prakash observed that the office was rather small compared to the grandeur of the living room that they had just crossed. An impressive teak writing table was placed opposite a giant window with lilac chiffon curtains on it. A shiny iMac was resting on the table. Surprisingly, the table also had an old Remington perched on the far end. Next to it, a pen stand housed immaculately sharpened pencils. On the other edge of the table, a few loose sheets of paper were fluttering under the waft of air from the air-conditioner above it. The picture-perfect setting for a writer was so real that Prakash imagined someone walking up to the desk any minute and start working on the next bestseller.

The wall to his left had a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled methodically with books, mostly on film, television and other such titles that people merely collect to show off and not read. The bookcase was designed like the ones in large public libraries and it reminded him of the time when he worked as a handy-boy at a teashop and had to ferry cups of tea up and down the giant stairs of the Asiatic Library at the Town Hall.

On the other side of the writing table, to Prakash’s right, was a bright yellow couch, big enough to be a makeshift bed when required. A huge gramophone and an envious collection of vinyl records, stacked as neatly and orderly as the books in the bookshelf, rested in the corner
bordered by the writing table and the yellow couch.

An oval rug was placed on the floor between the door and the teakwood desk. It occupied most of the empty space on the floor. It extended from the table to the door vertically and covered half the width of the room horizontally. It looked like an expensive piece of accessory but was now soaked with blood. Rujuta, when she entered the room behind Prakash and Tambe in a hurry, had stepped on this blood-smeared rug.

On the rug, a mangled mass of flesh and bone had been left in a heap. Rujuta could make out that it was two dogs and a cat. Rigor mortis had set in and the dead bodies were twisted in strange shapes. It was evident that the murderer had used these poor animals as a canvas to show off his skills as a messenger of death.

A pug, that probably suffered the least when it was killed, had its neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Its eyes were still open and had almost popped out of the sockets. A complex latticework of red and blue veins on the white pupils was staring out. Rujuta had first looked at these bulging eyes when she came in. Its jaw was open and an almost severed part of the tongue was hanging lifelessly from the open mouth.

The other animal, a bulldog, seemed to have gone through the worst punishment. Multiple stab wounds punctured its body and one of the pencils from the desk was stuck into its face, right below one of the eyes. The skin around each stab wound was swollen and blood had dried around the stabs. Each stab was like a mini volcano that spurt out thick chunks of blood. It was hard to image that a
mere pencil could inflict such deep wounds. One of its legs was amputated and a mangled bone stuck out of it.