The Turning - Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Prakash glared at Fatima. He was really annoyed. He had just returned from a meeting with Sonali which had left him depressed and suddenly rather lost, and was not in the best of tempers. He had come home hoping for a hot shower followed by a relaxed drink. Instead, to be told that two police officers had ensconced themselves in his drawing room, having refused to leave till he showed up, was really just about the limit!

Prakash strode into the drawing room, glaring at the two officers.

Then stopped short. For it was not Patil and Rodricks, as he had expected. It was Patil, accompanied by no less a personage than a Deputy Commissioner of Police! DCP Sushildutt Tagore.
Prakash had heard a quite a bit about him. And had met him fleetingly at some dinners organized by the Rotarians, or the Indian Merchants' Chamber, or whatever! Tagore was the new Wonder Boy of the elitist echelons of the Bombay Police, slated to become the next Commissioner. He'd probably be the youngest Bombay had ever known.

Prakash advanced farther into the room, trying to compose his disobliging features into the semblance of a smile. His mind was ringing warning bells. Tagore's presence here meant trouble.
Both the officers had risen at Prakash's entrance. "I'm afraid we have some rather disturbing news for you, Mr. Sattar," began Tagore.

"So she was poisoned!" It was a statement.

"We're afraid so!" Again it was the tall, lean, Tagore who spoke, in quiet, cultured tones. For all that he looked like a rather filmi version of a high-ranking policeman, he was an exceptional police officer.

Patil, had welcomed his inclusion in the case. When Irani had informed him bluntly that they had been saddled with a DCP for the better or worse, Patil had responded by saying that he hoped it would be Tagore.

"Well, it is Tagore," Irani had informed him dryly, knowing that his stolid PI cherished a warm admiration for the DCP, so diametrically different from him in every way.

Patil had risen from the ranks by dint of sheer merit and unremitting hard work. Tagore was from a privileged background. A wealthy, cultured Bengali family. He had qualified for the IAS or the IFS, but had chosen the IPS instead. He actually read classics, listened to classical music, and was lionized at parties by society hostesses hungry for the sensation of the moment, thrilled to be able to include an attractive, high-ranking Police Official to add spice to their parties.
Tagore did the social rounds when time permitted, but remained, essentially, a very private man. At forty-four he was as yet unmarried, resisting alike the blandishments of several determined women and the coaxings of his two devoted sisters.

He looked consideringly at Prakash, his face showing nothing but compassion for the bereaved husband. But he knew better. Sushildutt Tagore knew all about the activities of Mr. Prakash Sattar, including his liaison with the sensual Sonali Roy. Who happened to be one of Tagore's own old flames.

"What was the poison? How. . . how was it administered?" asked Prakash, adding shrewdly, "or can't you tel1?"

"It's no secret," said Tagore smoothly. "The poison used was some form of benzene. We are not quite sure yet, as to how it was administered. "

"But surely you've done the PM?"

"Yes, but benzene is a most unusual poison. In fact, I don't think I personally have come across such a case in all my career. Even the Doctors don't seem to understand it perfectly," replied Tagore with a slight shrug.

The doorbell rang and in a moment or two Rodricks entered. Tagore nodded to him and turned back to Prakash. "The actual investigation into your wife's murder will be carried out by Inspector Patil and Sub-Inspector Rodricks, aided by their colleagues and supervised by the Senior Inspector of the Cuffe Parade Police Station, Insp. Sheriyar Irani." He smiled disarmingly. "I will nominally be in overall charge. If, however, you wish to discuss anything with me at any time, please feel free to do so. If something strikes you. . ." He left the sentence hanging. In the Police Force, he was known as the master of half-sentences.

To Prakash's surprise, he then held out his hand. "I'll be off now, and leave these gentlemen to get on with their job. And oh," he added, as though an afterthought, "Please cooperate with us, won't you? We understand this is a difficult time for you, but the case is an unusual one." He smiled his slow smile. "It will take some solving!"

What Tagore didn't specify was, that the case appeared to be clearly an 'inside' job. That the murderer appeared to be either one of the family, or on intimate terms with the deceased. And that Sattar himself would have to face intense questioning. If the poor husband was always the last to know, he was among the first to be suspected! Hence the initial softening up, before he was put through the wringer.

After Tagore had left, Prakash looked inquiringly at the two officers managing, at the same time, to infuse an element of discouragement in his glance. He did not invite them to take a seat, and all three remained standing. The master of the house was the least at ease.

Before Patil or Rodricks could formulate the first question, or make any comment, Prakash stated uncompromisingly, "You may as well know right away that I was not in Bombay when my wife died. I was given the message at Poona, and arrived here the next day. By then, the body had already been sent to the hospital by her brother and aunt and other relatives." He spoke in a formal, stilted tone, without emotion, as though his wife had been the merest acquaintance.

"Could you tell us who found her?"

"Our maid - she was actually my wife's personal maid Fatima."

"We'll have to question her, later on. But tell us, who gave you the message of her death?"

"I didn't know straight away that Dina had died. She told me the message was that she was ill."
"She . . . ?" prompted Patil.

"Yes, the. . . the receptionist at the Hote1. I was out when Dina's brother, apparently, called up. He had left a message at the reception. The receptionist gave it to me when I returned, late at night."

"I see. And knowing that your wife was seriously ill, Mr. Sattar, you did not think it necessary to drive down that night itself?"

"There was nothing in the message to indicate that it was anything very serious," Prakash justified, belligerently.

"Which Hotel were you staying at, sir?" the query came from Rodricks.

After maintaining a moment's silence, Prakash said stiffly, "1 don't see how that is relevant to the case. Dina died at Bombay, not Poona. I would appreciate it if you would refrain from embarking on a fishing expedition and get on with your inquiry as fast as possible. My time is valuable."

"Did your wife leave a Will, Mr. Sattar?" That was Patil again.

"Not to my knowledge," the lie came out automatically, before Prakash could stop himself.

"Who were her lawyers?" persisted Patil. "She must have had some legal advice at some stage in her life."

This was a subtle reference to her divorce. Prakash said reluctantly, "I believe she used to consult one Mr. Gustad Kabraji, of Kabraji, Kabraji and Desai. They have their office somewhere in Fort area, I think."

"So they would know if your wife had left any Will?"

"Possibly," was the noncommittal response.

"Why was the body sent to the hospital? Had your wife indicated any wish to that effect to anyone?" asked Patil, suddenly. changing the course of the questioning.

"She may have indicated so to her aunt and brother. They sent the body to the hospital. As I've already told you, I wasn't here then."

"Quite. Tell us, Mr. Sattar, did your wife have any enemies? Do you know of anybody who would have wished her dead?"

Prakash shrugged almost helplessly, speaking in a natural tone of voice for the first time since entering his house that evening. "No, that's the whole damn thing! I just can't! This whole thing appears to be incredible. I still can't believe it. Dina poisoned!"

"Who all were present here when you came back here from Poona, sir?" asked Rodricks.

Prakash frowned in an effort of concentration. "Her brother, Fredun Vatcha. Then her aunt, who's been more like a mother to her, really. Banoo Kanga. Zerxes Avari. Then Dina's elder sister Shirin's husband, Jamshed Dumasia. But he wasn't here when I arrived. He came in a little later." He looked at both of them in turns. "That's about it! In fact," he added,"the very same persons who were there when you turned up, that day!"

"None of your children had dropped in at al1?" this was Rodricks again, surveying Prakash carefully as he asked the question.

The barriers were up again, instantly. "My children? Certainly not. Why should they be here?"
"Well, they were the deceased's step-children, so to speak," Rodricks explained.

Prakash did not bother to reply to this.

Patil asked suddenly, almost casually, "Were you on good terms with your wife?"

"What exactly are you trying to imply, Inspector?"

"I'm not implying anything, Mr. Sattar," Patil replied smoothly. "I am investigating a murder case." Prakash shrugged indifferently. "We got on together as well as most married couples do, Inspector." He went on, as though impelled to add, "Since you seem to be aware of the circumstances of my marriage to her, you must have deduced that I couldn't have been otherwise than very fond of her."

Even under police questioning, he could not bring himself to use the word 'love' where Dina was concerned. 'Love' had never been a reason, after all!

Patil seemed to accept his answer at face value. His next question was rather puzzling. "Did you and your wife socialize a lot?"

Prakash frowned. "No, not much. I am a busy man, Inspector, and my wife did not always enjoy very good health, of late. Just a few days before she . . . died, we had gone over to her sister's house. It was their Wedding Anniversary - thirtieth, I think. I can't really remember any other 'socializing' we'd done, recently."

To Rodrick's, and perhaps even Prakash's surprise, Patil said, "Well, I don't think we need disturb you any more just at this moment, Mr. Sattar. We'll let you know if anything comes to light, or if we need any further clarifications from you. Now, before we take your leave, if you could just give us the full names and addresses of Mrs. Sattar's brother and sister . . . and even that elderly lady . . . her aunt, we believe. . ."

Rodricks noted down the names and addresses. Once outside, he looked inquiringly at his Superior. "Any reason why you let him off so lightly, Sir?" he asked cautiously.

Patillaughed. "No use badgering him more than we need, at this stage. Not without something concrete. And as you probably noticed, the DCP didn't want to let him on to the fact, as yet, that the bottle of 'Joy' perfume used by his wife was the medium through which the poison had been administered. I wonder if she'd bought it herself, or it had been presented to her! Now, the right person to question at length is the maid."

"The one who found her dead," said Rodricks, nodding. "Yes; and she'd know most of the ins and outs of her mistress's life. Including with old walrus."

Patil cast him an exasperated glance. His subordinate's penchant for bestowing nicknames on witnesses and suspects was the bane of his more serious colleagues and Superiors. But it was undeniable that the names were often uncannily apt. Sattar was a bit like a walrus!

"Yes, but I want to question her when we can get her alone. Right now, if Sattar had insisted on remaining present while we questioned his servant, it might have been a bit awkward to refuse him." said Patil. "Get the Commander to depute a constable to watch Sattar's flat, and let us know the minute he steps out."

'Commander' was the grandiose title given to Head Constables at Police Stations all over Bombay. At the Cuffe Parade Police Station the Commander was a middle-aged, large-framed Sardar, named Dilkhush Singh. He combined native shrewdness with a jolly, hearty manner and had a fund of salty anecdotes and phrases on his ready tongue with which he alternately bullied and cajoled the constables under him.

"Once we get news that Sattar has left the house," Patil went on, "I'd like you to question that maid. Alone, without me."

"Any particular line you'd like me to take?"

"Everything now hinges on the bottle of perfume," said Patil thoughtfully. "Try and discover if Dina Sattar bought it herself, or it was given to her by anyone. Possibly her husband. And when it had been bought. Or given. It's obviously a new bottle.

"Also," continued Patil briskly, "see if you can find out from the maid, who's been in and out of the house for the past few days. And don't let on that we are aware of the bottle's disappearance from Dina Sattar's room. See if she has realized that herself."

"Will do, Inspector," Rodricks answered cheerily, filing away his superior's instructions in his mind.

"I also feel" Patil added, "that it might be worthwhile to check out at which hotel Sattar was staying, in Poona. He said the call was made by the deceased's brother. That must be Fredun Vatcha. Question Vatcha. Find out from him which hotel Sattar had been staying at, the telephone number, and so on. And also how he, Vatcha, got that info! Had the deceased been aware of her husband's whereabouts? Had she told Vatcha? If so, when? If not the deceased, who? Something may turn on that, or it may not."

"I'11 check that out."

"Then get on to our chaps at Poona and ask them to pay a discreet visit to the hotel and find out who took that particular call, at what time, and at what time the message was given to Sattar. Also, whether the receptionist was a female."

"Check," said Rodricks briskly. After a while, he wondered aloud idly, "Wonder why the DCP beat such a hasty retreat?"

The DCP, had they but known it, was at that moment reclining in a comfortable arm-chair, watching his host feed his pet swordfish.

* * * *

Sushildutt Tagore was in the middle of a room almost completely full of gigantic glass tanks, holding, apart from a mind-boggling variety of unusually shaped, variously hued fish, exquisite coral, colourful live polypes and a variety of sea-weeds. The effect was at once splendid and bizarre, like being alongside a miniature coral reef.

Tagore glanced at his host half in exasperation, half in awe. Marine life was the second passion in Sam Avari's life, now that his lovely French wife was dead. His first passion, as also his abiding interest, was the study of crime and the psychology of the criminal. In which he was considered to be an authority. Worldwide.

Because his passion for justice was almost equally strong, he had retired prematurely from a plum position at the Interpol in protest against political interference in a case having ramifications across several nations. His colleagues at the Interpol admired his guts, and kept up contact with him, discreetly availing of his services as a consultant. Unofficially, of course.

They needed him more than he needed them. Financially rather well off, his only son doing extremely well as a criminal lawyer, Sam was able to indulge in his absorbing, expensive hobby. And he swore to his disbelieving friends that his fish helped him gain an insight into human character and behaviour.

He glanced affectionately at the younger man. He knew full well what Sushildutt wanted. To get him involved in the Dina Sattar murder. After all, Zerxes was involved with the murdered woman's niece! Sam sighed. After Michelle's death, he had preferred being a consultant on marine life to the Bombay Natural History Society than being a consultant to either the Interpol or the CID.
From time to time however, his friends in the Force did take advantage over a friendly drink to pick his brains. And, to be honest, he quite enjoyed having a problem laid out before him and advancing a hypothesis. Which turned out to be the correct one, most of the time. As he had once wryly told Zerxes, "Once a cop, always a cop."

He finished feeding his swordfish and turned to Tagore, giving him his full attention. "Wel1?"
This was encouragement enough, coming from Sam. Tagore laid all the facts before him without any preamble. The circumstances of Dina Sattar's death. And the chain of coincidences leading to the discovery of that death being a murder.

Sam frowned. The evidence so far seemed to point to one person. The inevitable, the expected suspect. And Sam was experienced enough to know that in real life, in crime, the expected was often the right answer. Unexpected twists were more the metier of imaginative crime writers, rather than criminals. And yet, once every while, along came a criminal with a mind so beautifully simple, that he made the crime appear damnably devious. And thus confounded the sleuths. Was this going to be such a case? He felt so, in his bones. In which case, it was necessary to have an investigation from a slightly different angle.

From inside!

He heard Tagore out, then walked out of the tank-filled room, leading the way to his library-cum-study. Then he dialled Zerxes' number.

* * * *

Zerxes had dropped off Banoo Maa and Scherezade at Banoo Maa's flat, after they all had left the hospital at around 5.30 in the evening. Shirin had just been discharged from the hospital. They'd kept her there for a day. She seemed fine. It was Banoo Maa who had suddenly looked ill and exhausted, and Scherezade had insisted on going home with her, ignoring the old lady's feeble protests.

The telephone was ringing as Zerxes entered his flat. The answering machine was on. He switched on the ampliphone, to hear his father's voice at the other end. Zerxes lifted the receiver and spoke into it. He heard Sam out in silence, then said, "Sure, let him come over right away. I have no commitments right now. It'll be rather nice, meeting him again. Though the circumstances could have been more propitious!"

He listened for almost half a minute to his father. Then he sighed. "Yes, I know. You're right of course, as usual. Yes, I agree. This will have to be solved. The repercussions on the rest of them will be horrific, otherwise. Especially Scherezade. With her imagination. Yes, tell him I'll cooperate." Then he showered and changed, and sat down to await his visitor.

Sushildutt Tagore, he mused. The cops apparently had the wind up! And his Father felt that Zerxes should cooperate with Tagore in the matter. The old man had a point there. This damn thing had to be cleared up! For Scherezade's sake, if nobody else's. And Zerxes, having a ringside view of the family, could help.

Well, he would. On his own terms, though!

He himself knew Tagore rather well, besides having been acquainted with him as his father's 'chela'. Tagore had graduated in law, which had been one of the subjects opted for by him in his UPSC examination. And he had taught criminal law for a few months at the college where Zerxes had studied, and had actually taught Zerxes. Now it seemed he'd got the old man interested in the case! Well, Zerxes could only thank him for saving himself the trouble. The old man had an uncanny knack for figuring out the culprit.

Tagore greeted him with a "Well, Zerxes, good to see you again", before coming straightaway to, "tell me, what's really your interest in the Dina Sattar case?"

When working on a case, Tagore did not believe in wasting time on preliminaries, unless it was necessary to do so for some reason.

"The lady with apparently the biggest material motive for murder," replied Zerxes, his eyes glinting. Then he added with some deliberation, "the residuary legatee under the Will of the murdered woman - her niece, Scherezade Vatcha."

"Then there is a Will? And you've seen it?"

"Yes, there is a Will. And yes, I have seen it." He added dryly, "Don't waste time trying to get it from her Solicitor. It's in the custody of her aunt, Miss Banoo Kanga. I can give you her address, if you wish."

"Oh, I don't think I will interfere as yet with Irani's handling of the case. Let him go about it as he thinks fit. I'm merely the overseer!"

"Of course, quite the detached onlooker," Zerxes mocked blandly.

"Was the husband aware of the contents of the Will?" asked Tagore abruptly.

"No," replied Zerxes. "He appeared to be totally ignorant of even the existence of a Will. And I believe him. It appears he was one of those curiously superstitious men who have a strong aversion to making Wills. He's not, as yet, made his own."

Tagore then steered the conversation to more general channels. At around 7.30 pm, the telephone bell shrilled. It was Scherezade, to say that Gran (that was what she called Banoo Maa) wanted to talk to Zerxes and could he please come over? They could have dinner with her, after which Gran insisted that Scherezade go back with Zerxes, and that she would rather be by herself. They weren't to worry about her!

Tagore, on learning from Zerxes the purpose of the call, inquired if he could accompany him to Banoo Kanga's residence. "I'd like to meet both these ladies informally, if possible."

Zerxes nodded a quick affirmation, appreciating the message couched in Tagore's request.

* * * *

Banoo Maa's home was unabashedly, unashamedly a Parsee home. A home belonging, like its occupant, to an older, more gracious era. The rooms were of noble proportions, far too big for a spinster lady living alone. Heavy, almost Victorian furniture effectively banished any possible impression of spaciousness, however. Massive, intricately carved cupboards occupied almost a whole wall of the living room, which also doubled as a dining room. The rectangular dining table, with eight good-sized chairs around it was placed just in front of the cupboards lining the wall, giving rise to the suspicion that the cupboards were hardly ever opened. The seating arrangement was at the other end of the room: plush sofas into which one could sink oneself and one's tensions, and a couple of arm-chairs with extendible arms, to stretch one's legs on.

From one of the walls stared stern, mustachioed Parsee gentlemen of a bygone era clad in the traditional duglee and pugree, framed alongside good-looking, haughty-stared ladies wearing gorgeous garas and fine strings of pearls, their heads decorously covered with the saree pallo.
Banoo Maa's dead sister, their parents, grand-parents, uncles and aunts, all immortalized on sepia, set in massive gilt frames. These were leavened by the vibrant colour photographs of the subsequent generations.

There were no photographs of either of Dina's two husbands, nor that of her dead infant son. There were some memories even Banoo Maa could not cope with. Not visually, on her walls, at least.

She looked up now as Scherezade, having answered the doorbell, returned with Zerxes and a tall handsome man in his early forties with a grave, rather melancholy look in his large dark eyes.
Banoo Maa was quite startled when Zerxes introduced him. Policemen, in her opinion, neither looked so civilized nor dressed so well! His trousers were actually knife-creased, she noted almost mechanically.

Murmuring something about seeing to tea, she retreated into her large kitchen and lit the old-fashioned gas stove. She dropped the sprigs of mint in the boiling milk and water, mentally berating Zerxes for bringing that policeman here before she had had a chance to talk to him alone! She stalked back to the living room, the tea tray held aloft like a shield.

No shield was needed. To her astonishment, the policeman conducted a most common-place conversation. As though the fellow had had nothing better to do than to come calling on an elderly lady and pass some time in her company. What was more astonishing, he hardly opened his mouth! When she, Banoo herself, ultimately asked Tagore bluntly, with the dual privilege of both her sex and age, whether he had come to question them about Dina's death, (she as yet couldn't bring herself to call it 'murder'), Tagore smiled his slow, disarming smile and murmured that it was really Senior Inspector Sheriyar Irani who was in charge of the case, assisted by Inspector Patil and SubInspector Rodricks, and who would no doubt question all those concerned, as and when necessary.

"Do you mean to tell us, Mr. Tagore, that you have nothing whatsoever to do with my aunt's case?" asked Scherezade, directing a candid look at the DCP from out of her clear brown eyes.

Even Tagore blinked slightly under that direct, luminous gaze, feeling the roles reversed for the moment. A young lady of some force of character despite her ethereal loveliness, he thought to himself.

"No," he answered deliberately. "I can't honestly say I have nothing whatsoever to do with your aunt's case, Ms. Vatcha. I shall certainly be supervising the investigation. But I will not be actually carrying it out. Or, if at all" he temporized, "only very occasionally."

Scherezade nodded knowingly. "Only when it comes to interrogating a really important suspect," she said, adding cheerfully, "I shall now be terrified if ever you do decide to question me!"

"As to that, I might decide to question the more attractive 'suspects' myself, rather than give any of the other officers that pleasure," said Tagore with a gallantry that charmed Scherezade in spite of herself.

Tagore's purpose had been served. He had wanted to catch both these ladies unawares and see them in a familiar setting. He had seen one of them in her own. He had gauged them sufficiently for the moment. He nodded to Zerxes, bowed to the ladies and took his leave.

After he had left, two wrathful females rounded on Zerxes who looked at them quizzically and turned up his palms in a gesture of helplessness. It was wasted.

To the chorus of Scherezade's furious "How could you?" and Banoo Maa's more temperate "You might have at least warned us over the telephone!", he answered, "This was really the best way. He was with me when you phoned, darling. He wanted to come over. He'd have thought we were trying to hide something if I'd protested or even tried to warn you. Nor did I want to phone you from another room. Sushil is too downy a bird to even try such tricks on."

"Sushil?" echoed Scherezade, giving him a speaking look. "And how did he happen to 'be with you'? Was he interrogating you?"

"Hardly," replied Zerxes a little wearily, pulling the resisting girl towards him and lightly kissing her hair. "Sushil has known my father for a long time. Even before he joined the IPS. He had gone over to Papa, to pick his brains in the matter. Papa apparently suggested he'd be better off requesting my help instead." Zerxes looked seriously at both the women in turn. "Let's get one thing clear, darlings. It'll be hell for the family if this case gets into a limbo. And the kind of murder that it is, there's quite a possibility of that happening. I cannot . . . I dare not allow that to happen. This case has got to be solved! And I know full well neither of you, at least, had anything to do with it.

"My father is right. It'll be better if I do take a hand in it. And don't worry about Tagore! He's a clever chap. Discreet as well as civilized. Which is more than I can say of most policemen! Believe me, my love, I was almost as eager for Sushil to see you and Banoo informally, as he was to see the two of you."

He looked from her to the old lady, and back again. "I'm not so much bothered about the others, but I don't want the two of you to be badgered by policemen unnecessarily."

Banoo Maa looked steadily at Zerxes. Some kind of message seemed to pass between them. "Is it likely to cause any trouble?" This was what had been troubling her. What she had wanted to clear with Zerxes.

Zerxes had no difficulty in understanding what she was referring to. "Not really," he replied. "Besides, I am not too sure whether it is at all valid!"

"Would you two mind clarifying just what you are talking about?" Scherezade asked in a dangerous tone. This business was beginning to get on her nerves, and she was just spoiling for a fight.

To Banoo Maa's surprise, Zerxes answered quite readily, "Dina's Will, darling. She has made some minor bequests, apart from which you inherit the whole lot. All her money, jewellery, furniture. Everything."

Scherezade was too astonished to react. Her eyes slowly started filling with tears. Her beloved, unhappy aunt! Leaving everything to her! She didn't want it. She looked at Banoo Maa helplessly.

The old lady patted her shoulder comfortingly. Then she asked Zerxes, "What did you mean when you said you weren't sure it was valid?"

"Well, you might as well know now. I hadn't mentioned this to you earlier, but the bequests to you and Fatima are definitely void," explained Zerxes. "A bequest to a witness to the Will is void. Though the Will itself stands. Also, in Dina's case, as she had converted to Islam, she could not have bequeathed more than one-third of her Estate away from her heirs under the Muslim law. She should have consulted her Solicitors before drawing up a Will. Did she have a lot of money to leave?" he asked abruptly.

"Not much money in her own account. But she had a lot of valuable jewellery." Looking up at Zerxes with something like the old twinkle in her eye, Banoo Maa said comfortably, "Don't worry about me, dear boy. I really don't need Dina's money. Or anyone else's. I'm quite comfortably off. And I'll look after Fatima, should the need ever arise."

"So will I, Gran darling," said Scherezade giving her an impulsive hug. "I too am not bothered about Dina Fui's money or her jewellery or her furniture. But," she asked, turning to Zerxes. "Just out of curiosity. Who will get it?"

"Dina's sole heir as per Muslim law. Her husband. Prakash Sattar."