Book Extract : How To Kill A Billionaire By Rajesh Talwar

PART:2

‘Your witness,’ Centre Parting said. I stepped forward. ‘You have just said on oath,’ I said, ‘that I came to the White House and threatened your master. Is that correct?’ ‘It is correct,’ he said. ‘And you very well know this is what you did.’ He was being polite, but wouldn’t be for much longer. ‘What was my threat?’ ‘You would evict him, kidnap him and kill him.’ ‘All three things, eh?’ I smiled. ‘If you have such a good memory, can you tell me the colour of the shirt I was wearing?’

‘It was . . .’ He paused, trying to remember. ‘It was blue.’ ‘And was I wearing a coat? A lawyer’s coat?’ ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Was it a working day?’ ‘I was working.’ ‘That was not my question. You work even on Sundays. But the day when I came, was it a working day?’ ‘Yes, it was. It was a Tuesday.’ ‘Do you know my profession?’ ‘Yes, you are a lawyer.’
‘So wouldn’t I be wearing a lawyer’s coat on a working day – assuming that I was working?’ ‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Maybe not.’ I turned towards my colleagues momentarily. ‘He is not sure.’ I turned to face him again. ‘So you are not sure.’ ‘I am not sure.’ He looked disconcerted now. ‘You are not sure whether I was wearing a coat, but are certain that I was wearing a blue shirt?’ I allowed myself a small laugh. ‘How can this be?’
He was quiet.

And then I said, very politely: ‘I put it to you that you are speaking an untruth when you say you remember I was wearing a blue shirt.’ ‘I am not sure,’ he muttered. I could see he was sweating. ‘You have said in your statement I came in a taxi – is that correct?’ ‘That is right. You were in a taxi.’ ‘Can you tell me the number of the taxi?’

‘I did not note the number.’ ‘What kind of security guard are you?’ I said, a bit loudly. ‘Don’t you note the
numbers of the cars that come to visit your master?’

Lord Patel was taking little prancing steps up and down, whispering into his lawyers’ ears. I could understand his tension, the excitement and the pain he was experiencing at that moment. The butterfly continued to dance around his buttoned-up shirt, but, inside, the man’s heart trembled. And why wouldn’t it? He was after all standing next to the man he had accused of kidnapping and possibly murdering his son.

‘Your Honour, our witness is being intimidated,’ Curly Hair said. ‘I think that is a reasonable question, and there is no intimidation,’ ruled the judge. He turned to the witness. ‘Answer the question.’ ‘We note the numbers of the cars that we allow to enter the White House,’ said the guard. ‘In your case, you were sent back. We never allowed you to enter.’ ‘But,’ I said, ‘you say that I threatened your master. Did I abuse him as well?’ ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You called him a . . .’

‘Yes, yes.’ ‘You called him a madarchod, a motherfucker.’ A couple of lawyers behind me sniggered. ‘So if according to you I threatened your master, and if according to you I abused him, called him’ – a pause – ‘a motherfucker’ – more sniggers – ‘then did you not think it appropriate to write down the number of the taxi in your register?’

He was silent.
I took a well-calculated risk in asking this question. I had no idea at all if he had noted the number of the taxi. But I surmised, had he done so, he wouldn’t have been the sole witness appearing in court. They would have traced the taxi, given the taxi driver a pile of cash, and got him to testify against me in court. Surely. It was therefore clear to me that the taxi’s number had not been noted.

‘Answer my question,’ I said. ‘I forgot,’ he said sullenly. ‘You forgot,’ I repeated. ‘You forgot to note down the number of the car, and you forgot what clothes I was wearing, whether I was dressed or not, but – but you remember my face.’

‘I remember your face very well,’ he said grimly, having decided to take an aggressive stance now.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let me jog your memory just a little bit more. Can you tell me what the weather was like on that day?’

‘It was a warm day,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows that July is warm,’ I said, ‘but was it cloudy?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘It was a clear sky.’ ‘I put it to you that it was a cloudy day.’ ‘No.’ He was insistent. I pulled out a sheaf of papers from inside a plastic file, and gave it to the judge. A copy to Curly Hair and Centre Parting. Lord Patel bustled up to study it.

‘This is the weather report that appeared the following day day,’ I said. Met Department Weather Report: “Cloudy conditions to continue with rain forecast for the evening”.’ I turned to the witness. ‘All right, Balram, the court now knows the weather that day. Now don’t tell us any more lies. I have two more questions. Can you describe to us the face of the taxi driver?’

Lord Patel’s face was red with anger. The witness was not performing well at all. The security guard had possibly never been called as a witness in a criminal court before. I suspected that he was drinking on duty, possibly stealing stuff from Amit’s larder, because I recalled his slurred speech on the day of my encounter with him. He couldn’t remember the clothes I had been wearing that day, the number plate of the taxi I had taken to the house, the face of the taxi driver, or even whether it had been a sunny or a cloudy day. I suspected that he was an alcoholic, and that partly explained his slovenly attire and demeanour.

‘One last question. MrBalram. Are you fond of drinking?’ ‘I take a drink sometimes,’ he said. ‘Never while on duty.’
‘I put it to you that you were drunk the day I came to the White House.’ ‘That’s a lie.’ He was panting with anger.

(Carried with due permission from the author and publisher Juggernaut)