Private India: (Private 8)

by James Patterson

  Santosh silently handed over a photograph of the cap-wearing individual caught on CCTV exiting Kanya Jaiyen’s hotel room. “Could you pass that around to the boys and let me know if this chap shows up?”

  The man did not look at the photograph. He simply folded it and placed it in his shirt pocket.

  “Any information regarding our mutual friend?” asked Santosh.

  “That rascal Rupesh has tried everything in the book to break me but he has been spectacularly unsuccessful,” said the other man, grinning broadly. “He thinks that I don’t know about his dealings on the side with Munna. But I know for a fact that Munna wants to control not only Mumbai’s drugs, gambling, liquor, and prostitution but also the city’s begging network. I ain’t ceding my territory quite that easily.”

  “Rupesh is on Munna’s payroll?” asked Santosh.

  “Can’t be sure, but they have met a few times,” said the young man slyly, accepting a packet of cash from Santosh. “Munna met with a man who is known to be a member of the Indian Mujahideen. My boys told me that Munna told him to fuck off … almost threw him out of his car.”

  Why would an Indian Mujahideen member wish to meet Munna? wondered Santosh as he continued strolling along the beach with his amputee associate.

  Chapter 43

  I ALLOW THE water to run. It fills the old tub noisily. The sound of splashing reverberates through the room. I shut off the faucet once the water reaches the brim and kneel down in front of the tub, placing my hands on its edge. I lean forward and allow my face to touch the water. I allow my head to be immersed entirely. I leave my eyes open so that I can see beneath the surface and feel the sensation. Baptism!

  The truth is that human lungs were never designed to squeeze oxygen from water. But for someone struggling below the surface, it is an instinctive reaction to draw water into the larynx. The irony, of course, is that the water intake only serves to cut off the supply of life-giving oxygen, thus resulting in death. Birth, death, and rebirth … baptism!

  I hold my breath to prevent the water from hitting my lungs and force myself to stay immersed. There is no struggle, no panic. I am fully conscious and entirely in control. I count the seconds quietly in my head. These days I can count to two hundred and fifty without passing out. I pull my head out of the water and suck in air gratefully.

  One only realizes the value of air when one is deprived of it and one only begins to value life in the face of death.

  I actually feel sorry for Jack Morgan. So many raging hormones within … desperately yearning for union with the warm, inviting body of dear Lara, only to be served up her cold corpse instead. Deprivation yet again. What a tragic turn of events!

  I look up at my wall. The front-page story is fixed on it with sticky tape. I am in the limelight now … that gift to the editor did the trick. Someday I will be even more celebrated and they will worship me like a deity. My mother always predicted that I would be famous.

  One day a neighborhood child snatched my toy. My mother held me to her chest and calmed me down. She then made me look into her mirror. “Do you see your face?” she asked. “It’s so very beautiful. It will take you places.”

  But those moments were few and far between.

  Yes, Mother, I am famous now. Just like you predicted. I am living my dream … or is it your nightmare?

  Chapter 44

  THE MOOD AT Private India was somber. The senior team had assembled in the conference room at Jack’s request.

  “First of all, I must clarify the fact that I knew Lara from her days in LA,” he began. “My initial contact with her was on a case, but once the assignment was over we ended up becoming friends and soon we were romantically involved. There was absolutely nothing I wouldn’t do to protect Lara.”

  “Jack, you are embarrassing us. Not a single person in this room believes that you are a suspect,” said Santosh, absentmindedly playing with his walking cane. “The suspicion is only in Rupesh’s mind.”

  “The news from the grapevine,” began Nisha, “is that Rupesh’s boss—the Mumbai Police Commissioner—put pressure on him to hand over the investigation to Private India initially even though Rupesh personally was against it.”

  “That seems strange,” said Santosh. “Rupesh called the Commissioner while I waited. It was he who sought permission for us to take the lead.”

  “Rupesh wanted to retain control of the investigation,” said Nisha. “It was the Commissioner who was keen to pass it on to Private India.”

  “Even so, how does that make a difference?” asked Jack.

  “Well,” replied Nisha, “the Commissioner has now been kicked upstairs and will soon be taking over as Director General of Police—a nonjob if ever there was one! Rupesh was simply waiting for an opportunity to snatch the case from us. With the Commissioner going, your presence in Lara’s van on the day of her murder was the perfect excuse for him to act.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Jack, “this case is no longer just another investigation for Private India. This is now personal. I have lost one of my dearest friends and we are not going to give up on finding the perpetrator, irrespective of whether we’re officially on the case or not.”

  “Rupesh wants us to submit all our findings and reports to him in the next few hours,” Nisha reminded them.

  “And so we shall,” interjected Santosh. “Give him whatever he wants, but make sure that you have copies and backups of everything so that our own investigation can continue—with or without Rupesh’s blessing.”

  “What about the evidence collected from Principal Elina Xavier’s murder scene?” asked Mubeen.

  “Expedite your analysis so that you can return the physical evidence to Rupesh. As usual, retain copies of your findings,” replied Santosh, nudging Jack to get up.

  He wanted their boss to return to his hotel and get some rest. Jack was staying at the Taj Mahal Hotel and Santosh’s apartment was close by, less than a ten-minute walk from the Private India office in Colaba.

  The streets wore a festive look because most of Mumbai was celebrating Navratri—the Festival of Nine Nights—an extravaganza to honor the power of the Hindu mother goddess Durga. All along their route, small kiosks and makeshift temples had been erected and were decked out with flowers and bright electric lights.

  “C’mon, I’ll show you what Navratri celebration is all about before I drop you off at the hotel,” said Santosh, grasping Jack’s elbow to steer him into some open ground. Hundreds of young men and women had gathered there to dance the Dandiya—a form of dancing traditionally performed during the festival. Jack noticed that the men and women, each holding two short sticks in their hands, were dancing in concentric circles. On every fourth beat the sticks would clash together in order to complement the music in the background.

  In one corner of the ground a huge canopy had been constructed, under which sat a massive statue of Durga. Around the statue hundreds of worshipers sang devotional songs, danced, lit earthen lamps or incense, offered flowers, and recited prayers. The expression on Durga’s face was angry. Jack was curious despite his dazed and drained condition after Lara’s death.

  “Durga, despite the terrifying imagery with which she is depicted, is not a malevolent deity,” explained Santosh patiently. “For the ancient Hindu seers she was simply the goddess of time and transformation, who could help one understand the cycle of creation, life, death, and rebirth. To the uneducated, however, she was something entirely different. The Durga of medieval times was thirsty for human blood and could only be satisfied through human or animal sacrifice.”

  Santosh continued to explain the characteristics of Durga to Jack as he stood transfixed before the large statue. At that moment Santosh saw something that he had been missing all along. It sent shivers down his spine.

  Chapter 45

  “WHAT’S THE MATTER, Santosh?” asked Jack, realizing suddenly that they had been standing in front of the statue for a long time. Santosh seemed to be staring fixedly at the id
ol’s hands.

  His heart was beating wildly as he grabbed Jack’s arm like a man possessed, hurried out of the celebration grounds and hailed a cab—wildly waving it down with his walking stick. He was still waving it inside the cab, urging the driver to get a move on.

  “I thought you wanted to walk,” began Jack, but Santosh ignored his boss.

  “Take us to the Town Hall, and there’s an extra fifty in it for you if we’re there within five minutes … five minutes!” he instructed the cabbie. He then took out his cell phone and dialed Nisha, barking instructions. Jack was left wondering if there was some truth in the rumors that he had appointed a lunatic as his Indian bureau chief.

  With its vintage parquet floors, grand spiral staircases, wrought-iron loggias, and exquisite marble statues of forgotten city fathers, the white-colonnaded Town Hall was perhaps one of the most splendid and imposing of Mumbai’s heritage monuments. The cabbie dropped them off at the base of the stairs leading up to the magnificent building. Nisha arrived at the same time in another cab.

  “Why have we come here?” she asked breathlessly, having run part of the way due to the urgency of Santosh’s summons.

  “It’s not the Town Hall that we’re interested in,” he said as they began walking up the stairs. “This particular building also houses the Asiatic Society, which has a collection of close to one million books, some of them priceless antiques. We should easily find the one that I need.”

  The Asiatic Library had separate sections housing different treasures. An impressive numismatic collection of over a thousand ancient coins including a rare gold mohur belonging to the most famous Mughal emperor—Akbar—was also housed in the building. Of course, the collection was not open to public view but the library was accessible to all. Santosh ignored the direction signs and headed for the reading room, the fading grandeur of which attracted many senior citizens who sat under the ancient ceiling fans poring over local newspapers.

  “What are we looking for?” asked Nisha, as they entered the library and headed toward the central desk.

  “Tell the chief librarian that we need a book by M. D. Jayant and Naveen Gupta,” replied Santosh. “I can’t remember the title but it’s an illustrated book that explains the nine avatars of Durga.” Nisha returned a couple of minutes later with a slip of paper on which the librarian had written the rack number where the book could be found.

  Having located The Nine Durga Avatars of Hinduism, they sat down at an illuminated desk. Nisha began to read aloud the relevant passages to both men as softly as she could.

  “The mother goddess—Durga—has three basic forms and each of these has three manifestations thus resulting in a total of nine avatars. Each night of the nine-day festival of Navratri is dedicated to one of the nine avatars—”

  “Yes, yes, I know that,” said Santosh impatiently. “I want to know what each avatar looks like.”

  Nisha quickly leafed through the book and found the chapter that described the first avatar of Durga. She was known by the name Shailputri. Turning the pages further, they saw an illustration showing what Shailputri looked like. There was a moment of hushed awe when they saw the image of the avatar holding a trident in one hand and a lotus flower in the other.

  “Look at that,” said Santosh, pointing to the mount of the goddess. Nisha and Jack looked at the picture more closely. Santosh was spot on. Shailputri was shown mounted and seated on a bull. The first victim at the Marine Bay Plaza. Nisha felt her heart racing as the theory that Santosh was proposing dawned upon her.

  Chapter 46

  “THERE IS ONLY one way to find out if my instincts are correct,” said Santosh. “Let’s check out each of the nine avatars of Durga. Each one!”

  Nisha quickly flipped the page and found that the second avatar was called Brahamcharini. She was pictured with one hand holding a water pot, and another holding a rosary.

  “This ties in perfectly with the murder of Bhavna Choksi,” said Nisha excitedly.

  “Let’s go further,” instructed Jack, realizing that Santosh’s insight might possibly have cracked the case wide open.

  Nisha browsed the pages to find the third avatar, Chandraghanta. This avatar of Durga was shown riding a tiger. She was holding a bell and had a semicircular moon painted on her forehead.

  “Priyanka Talati,” whispered Nisha to Jack.

  “Actually, it turns out I was right in another little observation too,” said Santosh.

  “In what way?” asked Nisha.

  “The name Chandraghanta is a combination of two words—chandra and ghanta,” he replied. “The first means moon and the second bell. The murder of Priyanka happened on a Monday—the day of the moon. The night of the murder as per the almanac was a half-moon night. The half-moon is also a symbolic representation of a bell.”

  Jack took the book from Nisha and turned the pages to check the fourth form of Durga. The avatar was called Kushmanda. Below the image in the book was a brief explanation.

  “The name Kushmanda is derived from two separate Sanskrit words,” Jack read out, “kushma, which means warmth; and anda, which refers to the cosmic egg. So Kushmanda is considered to be the creator of the egg-shaped universe.”

  “Elina Xavier was left on her bed with a dozen eggs placed in an oval pattern around her,” Nisha confirmed.

  “There was something else about that murder scene,” said Santosh. “The temperature in the room had been set as high as possible, remember? Which ties in with the association with warmth.”

  Jack hurriedly turned the page to the fifth form of Durga. Her name was Skandamata. She was depicted as holding her son—an infant—on her lap.

  “Lara …” Jack sighed, slumping in his seat.

  “What are the remaining forms of Durga?” asked Santosh. “After all, we know that she has nine forms, right?”

  Nisha took the book back from Jack and hastily turned the pages to find the next avatar. “Here she is.” Nisha was pointing to an illustration of a goddess mounted on a lion. “Apparently this form is known as Katyayani.”

  She flipped over the pages and showed Jack and Santosh the next image—Kaalratri—a terrifying form of Durga. With a bluish-black complexion, long and disheveled hair, and seated on a donkey, this form was shown holding a bunch of thorns in her hand.

  The eighth avatar was Mahagauri, depicted with a fair complexion and holding a drum. Finally, the ninth incarnation—known as Siddhidatri—was shown with four arms holding a discus, a mace, a conch, and a lotus.

  “Four forms still left. It means that we should expect four more murders,” said Santosh grimly.

  Chapter 47

  “IF WE KNOW that the murderer is killing according to the nine incarnations of Durga, can’t we use this information to warn people?” asked Nisha.

  “How?” replied Santosh. “Knowing what the symbols mean tells us absolutely nothing about how the killer is choosing his victims. Nothing! For all we know, the bastard could be standing in a supermarket or on a street corner, randomly choosing targets.”

  “So what deductions can we make from what we know?” asked Jack.

  “Well, one thing is certain,” said Santosh. “Given that all the victims are depicted as incarnations of the goddess Durga, we can be fairly certain that all the future targets will also be women.”

  “All five previous killings have been in Mumbai, which means that the city constitutes a comfort zone for the killer,” added Jack.

  “There’s something in the thuggee story that is also relevant to our investigation,” said Santosh. “For most of the cult members, killing was a religious duty. They often saw their murders as a means of worship. Almost the equivalent of human sacrifice.”

  “Why the yellow scarf?” asked Nisha. “What does that have to do with Durga?”

  “I think I know the answer to that one,” replied Santosh. “I remember my grandmother recounting to me a legend in which Durga once fought a ferocious demon. Unfortunately, each drop of the monster’s
blood would spawn yet another monster. Durga finally created two men, each armed with yellow scarves, and ordered them to strangle the demons—in effect killing the monsters without allowing them to multiply. I assume that the thuggee tradition of yellow scarves has its genesis in that story.”

  He took a deep breath as he tried to clear his head. “We know that at the first three murder sites the security apparatus belonged to Xilon. There was no CCTV system at the girls’ school or in Lara’s van. What have we found out about Xilon?” he asked Nisha.

  “The company was created by a retired armed forces man—squeaky-clean track record. The reason that Xilon was at all three initial murder sites was because they have a monopoly of sorts … they control around two-thirds of the security business in Mumbai.”

  “What about the company’s employees?” asked Santosh.

  “I am still looking into individual employee records,” said Nisha. “Two of the senior engineers are on leave and one hasn’t reported in for a couple of days.”

  “Find out about the missing employee,” said Santosh, his antennae picking up on a possible angle.

  “Sure, I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow.”

  The library was almost empty at this hour. Most of the senior citizens who had been perusing newspapers and magazines in the public reading room had left. Any sound made within the imposing space was amplified by its high ceilings and marble pillars. Santosh’s excitement caused his voice to rise and echo. In the center of the generously proportioned room the old librarian sat in his wooden chair, dozing off intermittently, absorbing snatches of conversation emanating from the table occupied by the Private India team.