Crime fiction: Retired cricket umpire Russi Batliwala investigates a high-profile murder

Russi Batliwala paced up and down his living room, the tuft of black hair stretched across the bald patch at the top of his head bouncing in step with him. It had been twenty minutes since his taxi app had informed him that his driver would be there “in five minutes”.

He was gripping his phone with his pudgy fingers when it let out a weak beep.

Thank you for your patience. Your driver will be reaching the pick-up location soon.

“Reaching the pick-up location soon, I believe. My foot!” said Russi. “The chap hasn’t moved an inch from Dadar Circle in the last fifteen minutes. My dear bapaiji – bless her grandmotherly soul – would have walked here faster, despite her arthritic knees and permanently swollen ankles.”

He slumped into a large worn-out leather chair, which creaked in protest as he adjusted his pear-shaped frame into it.

“Bad enough I need to go to this bloody cricket club dinner, now I will be properly late for it,” he said. “Sherbanoo dear, I wonder if there is some sudden traffic jam. Or worse, has this taxi fellow gone for his own dinner while ensuring I am late for mine?”

Sherbanoo shuffled in her cane chair in the corner of...

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