The Suspects
The Mehta case, as it unravelled over the next six weeks, was exactly the kind of case that had no clean edges.
They discovered, first, that Rajiv Mehta had been systematically siphoning funds from MICL’s infrastructure contracts through a series of shell companies registered in Hyderabad and Kolkata. The amounts were staggering, close to two hundred crores over seven years. His younger brother Suresh, the shouting man in the driveway, had found out a year before the death and had been negotiating, blackmailing, in plain terms, for a larger share of the company.
Investigations revealed that the business partner who had been eased out, a man named Ravi Goyal, no relation to Shyla, had hired a private investigator who had been compiling a dossier on Rajiv for eighteen months.
They found that the wife’s ‘unusual friendship’ was innocent, an elderly former professor who had been her mentor in college, whom she visited weekly and had not mentioned because she had found her husband’s jealousy exhausting.
It was deduced that the son’s four crores in personal expenses had been approved by Rajiv himself, because the son, a kind, somewhat directionless young man named Aditya, was not a suspect but a victim in his own way, having been kept financially dependent to ensure loyalty.
Investigations revealed that Priya Mehta, the daughter-in-law, the one with the pharmaceutical background, had indeed purchased a Digitalis purpurea tincture from an Ayurvedic supplier in Gurugram three months before the death, using a different name, paying cash.
But the supplier’s description of the buyer did not match Priya.
It was Shyla who noticed the discrepancy, at eleven at night in the CBI office, which she and Radha had taken to sharing for late sessions because it was easier. The supplier’s description, tall, heavyset, fair complexion, fit none of the women in the family. It did fit Ravi Goyal, the ousted business partner.
“He is the one with pharmacological knowledge?” Shyla asked, leaning forward.
“He’s a chemical engineer by training,” Radha said slowly. “Before he diversified into construction. He would know the compounds. He would know the dosage.”
“And he had access? To the farmhouse?”
“He was at a dinner there two weeks before the death. He and Rajiv were still maintaining the pretence of cordiality while their lawyers negotiated. He had access to the study. He knew the layout.”
They looked at each other across the desk. This was the moment, the kind that detective novels built toward and that real investigations delivered not with trumpets but with a quiet, cold clarity.
“We need his financials, his phone records, and his movements in the seventy-two hours before the death,” Radha said. “Immediately.”