Santosh gave a tight smile. “Well, yes and no. As we’ve often discussed, you employed me for my investigative skills.” He inclined his head modestly. “Such as they are. What you didn’t employ me for was my political diplomacy. I can tell you now, I do not possess such skills. What concerns me about this case, Jack, is that I’m not being asked to solve a crime so much as collect political leverage for Jaswal—a man I trust as much as I would a hungry tiger.”
Jack shrugged, failing to see a problem. Santosh tried again. “Am I investigating murders or gathering information to help political rivals?” he asked simply.
“In this case, it’s one and the same,” answered Jack.
Santosh stared at him. “I thought you might say something like that.”
Chapter 11
NISHA STOOD IN the street in Greater Kailash, gazing through the chain-link fence at the crime scene.
A call to the police had proved fruitless. Just as expected, the shutters had come down. As Santosh had warned her, no one in Sharma’s police department would help them now. Sharma reported to Chopra. With Chopra and Jaswal at loggerheads, working for Jaswal meant they would have no help from the police.
So she’d decided to pay Greater Kailash a visit.
The house and its grounds were just as they had looked online: neglected, unkempt, but otherwise an unremarkable home in a street full of unremarkable homes. There was one important distinction—the police presence. Uniformed officers guarded the door, while others stood near the polythene tape that marked out where the ground had given way into the grim scene below.
Careful not to attract the attention of those on the other side of the fence, Nisha began to take pictures, methodically working her way across the front of the house. At the same time she watched where she put her feet, knowing only too well that—
Ah.
Something the cops inside had missed. Nisha had quit the Mumbai Police’s Criminal Investigation Department to work alongside Santosh, and what she knew from her time on the force was that cops had a tendency to see only what was in front of them. It was one of the reasons she’d been so keen to work with an investigator like Santosh. A detective with the ability to think outside the box.
Or, in this case, look on the other side of the wire fence.
She bent to pick up a cigarette butt that seemed out of place among the usual detritus on the ground. The filter wasn’t the usual brown, but silver, plus it bore a beautiful crest in black.
“Can I help you?” came a voice from above. She looked up to see an older woman standing over her.
Nisha stood, held out her hand to shake, and switched on her most dazzling smile. “I suppose you could say I’m a bit of a ghoul,” she said. “My name’s Nisha. I run a Delhi crime blog. I wonder: would you be willing to speak to me? For my blog, I mean. Do you live around here?”
Something in Nisha’s manner seemed to have a positive effect on the woman. Her scowl subsiding, she said, “I do. Opposite. In fact, it was me who called the police.”
“Oh? What was it that made you raise the alarm?”
“A half-naked girl, would you believe? Screaming and running away from the house. By all accounts half the lawn had caved in and underneath it was this awful…graveyard or whatever it is they’ve found.”
“What was she doing there?”
“Most likely there with her boyfriend,” confided the woman. “Doing you know what.”
“I see.”
“And you know what?” said the woman. “There’s been absolutely no mention of this on the news or in the papers.”
“Well, exactly,” said Nisha. “I only found out via a contact in the police force.”
“It’s almost like they’re trying to hide something,” said the woman, drawing her arms across her chest and tilting her chin. She looked left and right. “I used to see a black van in the driveway.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. It was often there.”
“Make?”
The woman gave a slight smile. “The make was a Tempo Traveler, and I know that because we used to have one, many moons ago…” She drifted off a little, evidently revisiting a past with a man in her life, possibly a family too, and Nisha felt her nostalgia keenly, thinking of her own loss.
Regretfully Nisha pulled her new friend back into the present. “I don’t suppose you got a license plate number?”
The neighbor frowned. “Well, no, I didn’t. Do you go around noting down license plate numbers?”
Nisha conceded the point then added, “Ah, but what if they’re up to no good?”
“Well, I never saw anything especially unusual. It had a red zigzag pattern running across the side, which was quite distinctive. Other than that…”
“Would you draw it for me?” asked Nisha. She passed the woman her pad and pen, and for some moments the pair stood in silence as the woman concentrated on sketching the van’s paint job.
“My drawing isn’t very good,” she said with an apologetic shrug as she handed back the pad. “But it looked something like that.”
“Thank you. Did you tell the police about the van?”
“Of course I did. Not that they were interested.”
Which figures, thought Nisha.
They spoke for some minutes more, mainly with the neighbor complaining that the house wasn’t sufficiently well maintained, and how the police hadn’t taken her concerns seriously enough. “My late husband would have taken it further. He would have done something about it, but…” She fixed Nisha with such a pained, searching look that Nisha felt as though the other woman could see inside her—as if the neighbor knew exactly what it was they had in common—and for a second she thought it might be too much to bear.
“Thank you,” Nisha stammered, only just managing to control her emotions as the two said their good-byes and went their separate ways.
Chapter 12
THE OFFICE–RESIDENCE OF the Lieutenant Governor of Delhi, Ram Chopra, was located at Raj Niwas Marg. There in the living room, two men in oversized leather armchairs drank whisky and paid no mind to the fact that it was the middle of the day. The crisp Delhi winter made everything possible.
Ram Chopra poured more water into his whisky, added ice, and took a puff of his Cohiba cigar. Opposite, the Commissioner of Police, Rajesh Sharma, drank his whisky neat.
Both were big men who tended to dominate a room. Both had been born and brought up in the holy town of Varanasi. Otherwise the two couldn’t have been more different: while Chopra was suave and sophisticated, Sharma was unrefined and coarse, from his constantly ruffled uniform to the toothpick firmly lodged between his teeth.
Sharma had been orphaned young and fended for himself. Growing up in Varanasi had been hard, and from early on he’d known the only two options were flight or fight. He’d chosen the latter and gone from being a victim to the most feared kid at school. The many nights of sleeping hungry had given rise to his voracious appetite and obesity in recent times.
Chopra, on the other hand, had been educated at the prestigious Mayo College and then had joined the Indian Air Force, rising to the position of wing commander. Deputized to the Central Bureau of Investigation to assist in a Defense Department investigation, he’d chosen to stay on, investigating high-profile cases involving terrorism and corruption. He’d eventually succeeded in working his way up to the top job, that of director.
His get-it-done approach had made the Prime Minister a fan. Upon his retirement, the position of Lieutenant Governor had been made available to him as a postretirement sop.
And now he ran Delhi. Or would, if not for the constant interference of Mohan Jaswal, Nikhil Kumar, and Co. Still, it kept life interesting. Chopra would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy a bit of conflict every now and then. It was something else he had in common with his overweight, whisky-swilling friend opposite.
He regarded Sharma through a cloud of blue cigar smoke, feeling pleasantly sleepy and guessing the Police Commission
er felt the same way. “These body parts found in the basement at Greater Kailash,” he said. “Any new developments?”
“Investigations continue,” replied Sharma.
“One would hope so,” said Chopra. With some effort he leaned forward to place his cigar on the edge of the solid silver ashtray. The ash needed to fall gently on its own. Aficionados would never tap a cigar.
“But there’s something else,” said Sharma.
“Yes?” asked Chopra.
“Kumar wants the matter hushed up. The prick visited me, offering me a bribe.”
“I see. Well, if Kumar wants this kept quiet then perhaps it might be fun to see that the case receives maximum publicity.”
But Sharma wasn’t smiling. “You might not want that, Lieutenant Governor.”
Chopra squinted at Sharma through the smoke. “Oh yes? Why so?”
“I’ll show you.”
Intrigued, Chopra watched Sharma ease himself from the armchair—no easy task—and cross to a briefcase he’d brought with him. The big cop extracted a folder, returned to Chopra, and passed him a photograph.
“This is the house where the bodies were found?” asked Chopra.
“It is.”
Chopra studied the photograph a second time then handed it back. “In that case, I concur with our friend Kumar. It might not be prudent to raise public awareness at this stage.”
Sharma’s chin settled into his chest. “I thought you’d say that. I’ve already taken steps to ensure the investigation is as low-key as possible.”
“Nevertheless, I’d be interested to know why Kumar wants this kept quiet. You can look into that for me, can you?”
“I can.”
“Thank you. You can be certain I shall be most grateful for your efforts.”
“There’s something else,” said Sharma, opening the folder once more.
“Yes?”
“I hear Jaswal wants you to approve the appointment of Amit Roy as Principal Secretary in Kumar’s ministry.”
“He does.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Chopra grinned. “Jaswal hates to be kept waiting, so…”
“You thought you’d keep him waiting.”
“Quite.”
“I have something here that might help make up your mind. Have a look at this,” said Sharma, handing over the folder.
“What is it?”
“It’s as many reasons as you want why it’s a bad idea to promote Amit Roy.”
In the folder were photographs of Amit Roy with young girls. Children. Chopra didn’t bother leafing through the lot. He got the idea. He dropped the folder back on the table between them.
“This changes nothing,” he said.
“But it’s incontrovertible evidence that Amit Roy is a pedophile. The very worst kind.”
“Exactly. And it’s for that reason that I plan to let the appointment go through.”
“Why?” asked Sharma.
“The bodies at the Greater Kailash house could put Jaswal in a fix. Having an animal like Roy as Health Secretary could put him in an even bigger fix. My thanks for bringing these things to my attention, Sharma. I shall approve Roy’s promotion at once.”
Chapter 13
NISHA’S HUNT FOR a black Tempo Traveler van sporting a zigzag pattern had taken her to the Regional Transport Office. The visit had cost Private India the price of a bribe, but for that Nisha had been given the name of a workshop, Truckomatic, that might customize vans.
Fifteen minutes later she entered Truckomatic, a large industrial paint shop that rang to the sound of pneumatic lifts and sprays. According to the owner—a gym rat who gave Nisha a long look up and down before deigning to speak to her—Truckomatic customized over a hundred vehicles each month.
Nisha showed him her pad. “Something like that,” she said. “I was wondering whether you’ve anything similar.”
“Sure,” grinned the owner. “For around two hundred customers at last count. We have a catalog of around a thousand concepts. This is one of the more popular ones.”
“This one was on a Tempo Traveler,” probed Nisha.
“That certainly narrows it down.”
“Does it narrow it down enough that you could give me a list of customers?” asked Nisha.
The owner grinned again. “Give me a few days and I could, I suppose. But what’s in it for me?”
Nisha sighed and reached for her pocketbook, thanking God for Private’s no-questions-asked expenses policy.
Chapter 14
“I’VE NEVER SEEN this cigarette before,” said Nisha, placing the butt she’d found on Neel’s spotless white table. “Can you find out which brand it is?”
“Easily done,” said Neel, crossing to his bookshelf. He scanned the various medical and scientific journals and catalogs until he laid his hands on the book he was looking for. He brought it back to the table.
“What is it?” asked Nisha.
“You see, Sherlock Holmes had his power of deduction, Superman had his X-ray vision, Dick Tracy used his two-way wrist radio, but Bob Bourhill depended on cigarette butts.”
“Bob Bourhill?” asked Nisha.
“A sleuth tasked with figuring out the cause of fires in the forests of Oregon. He spent years cataloging cigarettes, cigars, and cigarette butts. He’s the acknowledged expert in this narrow but important field.”
Neel used a magnifying glass to examine the butt and then consulted his book.
“Bourhill codified the characteristics of cigarette butts across the world and his book on the subject is updated each year. If it isn’t in the book, then it doesn’t exist. Ah, here we go…This one is a very exclusive brand. It’s by a company called the Chancellor Tobacco Company in England. The cigarette is called Treasurer Luxury White. Very expensive. Only sold in England and only at exclusive locations. Not available through ordinary retail channels, and certainly not in India.”
Nisha grinned. “Remind me to thank Bob Bourhill when I see him.”
Chapter 15
THE SMALL GROUND-FLOOR apartment in Vasant Vihar was ideal for Nisha, her eleven-year-old daughter, Maya, and their maid, Heena. It had been pricey—Vasant Vihar was an expensive area and property prices in Delhi had gone through the roof—but Sanjeev had left her with money and, having bought the apartment, Nisha had saved the rest. Financially she was well off.
But for all that, nothing could fill the emotional hole Sanjeev had left. It was as though his absence were a malignant presence. Like a shadow in their lives. And it was with them now as they sat at the dining table, finishing a dinner prepared by Heena. It was an unspoken thing. We wish Papa were here. Telling stupid jokes or singing to himself or even just being grumpy. Whatever. We wish Papa were here.
Not for the first time, Nisha thanked her lucky stars for Heena. Without Heena she couldn’t work. And there were times that Nisha thought work was the only thing that allowed her to cope with losing Sanjeev.
Heena was also blessed with the ability to know when Nisha and Maya needed a little mother–daughter time. Like now, as she cleared the table and left them to settle down into the living-room sofa.
“Why couldn’t we just get pizza from that new place down the street?” asked Maya, snuggling into her mother. A cartoon was on TV but neither was really watching it.
“Junk food. Not good for either of us,” replied Nisha. “Better to eat healthy home-cooked meals prepared by Heena.”
Nisha felt her daughter’s shoulders shake, the all-too-familiar signal that tears were imminent, and all Nisha could do was hold her and try to cuddle the pain away.
“I miss Papa,” said Maya, the tears now rolling down her cheeks. “I miss the times he took us out for pizza and ice cream. I don’t want the pizza or ice cream. I just want Papa back.”
“I know, baby, I miss him too,” said Nisha, thinking, God, so much. I miss him so much.
“I feel so lonely,” whimpered Maya. “You’re alw
ays working.” The pain in her little girl’s voice, and the bald truth of the statement, made Nisha feel wretched. “But at least when you were late, it was Dad who would tuck me into bed. Now there’s only Heena. The apartment feels so cold and empty.”
Nisha hugged Maya tighter and thumbed tears from her face. “Tell you what,” she said. “On the weekend, we’ll go out. How about a movie followed by pizza?”
Sniffing, Maya nodded and Nisha felt bowled over by her bravery. This frail little thing, forced to cope with so much at such a young age. “You and I make a great team,” she said into Maya’s hair. “I promise that we’ll take a holiday together in the hills soon. What do you think about Shimla? It’s not too far from Delhi.”
“The last time you said that, we had to cancel the holiday because of work,” said Maya, and Nisha cringed at the memory.
“No cancelations this time, I promise,” she said.
Maya brightened up more. Nisha passed her a box of tissues to wipe away her tears.
“Now, what about that essay you were supposed to write for your school competition? The one about how to improve the health of Delhi’s citizens?” asked Nisha.
Maya rolled her eyes. “It was due earlier today. It’s already been submitted.”
“I see. And does it have a title, this masterwork?”
“It’s called ‘Health Care, Fair and Square?’ It’s about how everybody should have access to health care whether they’re rich or poor, young or old, whatever their nationality. How we should treat health care a bit more like we do education, so more people get a fair shot.”
Nisha awarded Maya with an impressed look. “Wow, well, that’s very, very commendable, Maya. I’m delighted. Can I have a copy to read?”
“I saved one,” beamed Maya. She fetched it then snuggled back into position. “I’m pretty pleased with it, actually. Especially as most people have just talked about, like, how many hospitals there are in the city and stuff.”
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